1 


THE   FALCONER   OF   GOD 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

WILLIAM   ROSE   BENET 


NEW  HAVEN :  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON :  HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 
BY  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


First  printed  June,  1914.    1000  copies 


Copyright,  1909,  by  The  Pacific  Monthly  (Sunset  Magazine) 

Copyright,  1911,  by  The  American  Magazine 

Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Outlook 

Copyright,  1913,  by  Poet-Lore 

Copyright,  1913,  1914,  by  Harper's  Weekly 

Copyright,  1913,  1914,  by  The  Masses 

Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Bookman 

Copyright,  1914,  by  Poetry  Review 

Copyright,  1914,  by  A  inslee's 

Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Century  Magazine 

Copyright,  1914,  by  Lippincotf  s  Magazine 

Copyright,  1914,  by  Scribner's  Magazine 

Copyright,  1914,  by  The  North  American  Review 

Copyright,  I91.4,,by  Poetry 


The  author  makes  grateful  acknowledgment  to  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  The  Century  Magazine,  The  North 
American  Review,  The  American  Magazine,  Lippin- 
cott's  Magazine,  The  Outlook,  Ainslee's  Magazine,  Har 
per's  Weekly,  Sunset,  The  Pacific  Monthly,  The  Book 
man,  The  Masses,  "Poetry,"  Poet-Lore,  and  The  Poetry 
Review  (England),  for  permission  to  reprint  here  such 
poems  as  have  already  appeared  in  their  pages. 


300355 


To 
MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  FATHER 

WITH  DEEP  APPRECIATION  OF 
THE  DEBTS  I  CAN  NEVER  PAY 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

The  Falconer  of  God 1 

The  World's  Desire 3 

No-More-Fear       ......  4 

Love  in  the  Dawn          .....  7 

May  Celebrants 8 

Brother .  11 

The  Land  of  the  Giants          .           .           .           .  12 

The  Mad  Sculptor 16 

The  Ford  of  Transfiguration            .           .           .  18 

The  Schoolroom  of  Poets        .           .           .           .  19 

"All  the   Morning"        .....  24 

The    Messenger 26 

Cafe  Tortoni   ('81) 27 

The  Thinker's  Vision 32 

The  Powerful 34 

How  the  Winning  Four  Went  Home        .           .  35 

In  the  Gallery 38 

Wings 40 

People          .                     41 

The  Racing  Cars 43 

Imagination            ......  45 

Northern  California  Night     ....  46 

The  Vivandiere  ('70) 48 

Reprisals      .......  53 

On  Grace  Church  Corner        ....  54 


CONTENTS 

The  Flowering  Faggots          .           .           .           .  55 

"Had  I  a  Claim  to  Fame?"     .           .          .           .  58 

On  Hans  Andersen's  "Snow  Queen"           .           .  59 

Integrity 61 

The  Secret  of  the  Waterfall  ....  62 

"Le  Baiser"          ......  67 

The  Laughing  Woman  .....  68 

The  Arcieri  of  Michelangelo  ....  70 

The  Sorceress  of  the  Moon     .           .          .           .  71 

The  Bright  Assassin     .....  73 

On  the  Waterfront 75 

The  Street  Lamp 79 

Agnostic  to  Mystic        .....  80 

Rebel  Faith 81 

The  Feast  of  the  Gods 83 

The  Successor      ......  85 

The  Carpers  (An  Aspect)      ....  87 

A  Street  Mother 88 

His  Worst  Enemy 89 

"Poor  Girl" 91 

The  Snob 92 

The  Cats  of  Cobblestone  Street       ...  93 

The  Foreign  Sailor 96 

Mid-Ocean 99 

Success 100 

The  Stallion  of  Night 102 

The  Intrepid  Mariner   .           .           .          .      -   .  105 

Winter 107 

The  Sea  Dream 109 

Recalled Ill 

[*] 


CONTENTS 

The  One 112 

The  Summons      .          .          .          ,          .          .  113 

The  Pearl  Diver 115 

The  Man 116 

The  Good  Counsel         .  119 


[xi] 


THE   FALCONER   OF   GOD 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

I  flung  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying. 
I  said,  "Wait  on,  wait  on,  while  I  ride  below ! 

I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 

In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 

A  strange  white  heron  rising  with  silver  on  its  wings, 
Rising  and  crying 

Wordless,  wondrous  things; 
The  secret  of  the  stars,  of  the  world's  heart-strings 

The  answer  to  their  woe. 
Then  stoop  thou  upon  him,  and  grip  and  hold  him  so!" 

My  wild  soul  waited  on  as  falcons  hover. 
I  beat  the  reedy  fens  as  I  trampled  past. 
I  heard  the  mournful  loon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon. 
And  then — with  feathery  thunder — the  bird  of  my  desire 

Broke  from  the  cover 
Flashing  silver  fire. 
High  up  among  the  stars  I  saw  his  pinions  spire. 

The  pale  clouds  gazed  aghast 

As  my  falcon  stoopt  upon  him,  and  gript  and  held  him 
fast. 

My  soul  dropt  through  the  air — with  heavenly   plun 
der?— 
Gripping  the  dazzling  bird  my  dreaming  knew? 

Nay!  but  a  piteous  freight, 

A  dark  and  heavy  weight 

m 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Despoiled  of  silver  plumage,  its  voice  forever  stilled, — 
All  of  the  wonder 

Gone  that  ever  filled 
Its  guise  with  glory.     Oh,  bird  that  I  have  killed, 

How  brilliantly  you  flew 
Across  my  rapturous  vision  when  first  I  dreamed  of  you ! 

Yet  I  fling  my  soul  on  high  with  new  endeavor, 
And  I  ride  the  world  below  with  a  joyful  mind. 
I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges! 

I  beat  forever 
The  fens  and  the  sedges. 
The    pledge    is    still    the    same — for    all    disastrous 

pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned! 
My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find. 


THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE 

Pain  of  too  poignant  beauty  fills  the  heart 

Seeing  rich  dreams  through  some  rare  sunset  drift, 
Or  when  on  lawns  the  summer  shadows  shift 

In  soft  designs  beyond  Man's  clumsy  art 

To  emulate.     Quick  tears  may  almost  start 
When  the  anointed  stars  to  heaven  uplift 
Their  voiceless  adoration,,  and  a  rift 

Seems  shining  in  the  night  where  pale  clouds  part. 

In  hours  like  these  what  vast  benevolence 

Breathes  through  the  world !    O  God  beyond  illusion, 
Then  we  divine  thou  knowest  our  dark  confusion, 

With  fervent  answers  soothing  every  sense; 

And  yet  we  feel — what  pain — in  the  intense 
Desire  for  thee  to  end  thy  long  seclusion ! 


[3] 


NO-MORE-FEAR 

I  came  to  the  mountains  of  sleep. 

I  came  to  the  hills. 
The  rivers  that  run  and  weep, 
The  sun  that  burns  and  thrills 

As  the  Master  wills. 
All  were  gathered  there  in  a  flood  that  came  and  went 

Fathomless  and  reverberant 
Round  about  the  hills, 

Over  and  under  the  hills. 

There  speechless  stands  a  grove. 
There  roofless  a  temple  stands. 
Its  columns  are  lost  above. 

Its  hall  is  quiet  with  love. 
The  final  work  of  His  hands, 

The  ultimate  from  His  hands, 

Majestic  and  calm  it  stands. 

There  are  no  doorways  here. 
There  are  no  halls  but  one, 
Wide  to  the  mystic  flood, 
Harped  upon  by  the  flood, 

Dizzied  through  with  the  flood, 

With  the  flood  in  unison 
In  the  temple  of  No-More-Fear. 

No  forms  that  one  may  see 
Move  in  the  lightening  hall, 

in 


NO-MORE-FEAR 

But  voices  everywhere, 
But  voices  constantly 

Echo  from  wall  to  wall, 
Speaking  of  unity, 

Singing  of  things  most  fair — 
Voices  of  purity, 

Of  light  and  solemnity 
Ring  goldenly  everywhere. 

"They  are  souls  asleep/'  He  said, 

Bending  above  my  head. 
"They  are  mine/'  the  Master  said, 

"As  this  is  my  temple,  so 

These  are  mine,  who  sleep  below 
Whence  thou  comest,  or  ever  flow 
Here  for  permanence — those  ye  know 
In  your  puny  spheres  as  your  Dead, 

As  your  storied  and  gloried  Dead." 

"They  are  mine,"  the  Master  said, 
His  voice  like  a  thrilled  lute  string. 
"So  in  your  sleep  I  take  you — 
So  in  your  sleep  I  wake  you 

To  gradual  communing 
That  ye  be  prepared  in  soul 
To  win  to  this  final  speech 
When  every  soul  to  each 
Shall  speak  free,  confess,  extoll; 
In  this  windy,  silent  hall 
One  choir  forevermore — 
Purging  your  spirits,  purging 

[*] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Your  souls  without  my  urging, 
Evermore  in  a  golden  speech, 
Till  ye  bloom  in  a  radiance  whole 
And  the  Plan  wakes  like  light  on  all." 

"Every  night  ye  come,  though  ye  know  it  not/' 

said   the   Master. 
"Then  worlds  are  dumb. 

And  the  figments  of  my  fancy — 

Death,  and  Fate,  and  Disaster — 
Dissolve  from  their  necromancy, 
And  up  to  my  Truth  ye  come; 
From  the  crucible  where  I  weld  you 

The  courage  that  justifies 
All  the  tests  by  which  I  try  you. 
For  the  daylight  I  have  held  you 

'Neath  my  sun,  my  fire,  and  my  desire 
To  temper  you  to  mine  eyes. 
But  now — I  purify  you!" 

And  He  spake  then  with  words  like  flame 
Of  cosmos  and  creation, 

Of  Truth  and  divination — 
While  the  voices  sang  his  name, 
While  the  flood  of  souls  and  voices 
Rejoiced  as  a  dawn  rejoices 
In  the  sun's  first  kiss — yet  I 

Nothing  have  brought  away ! 
Nothing  but  great  content 

And  some  broken  words,  that  went 
Back  with  me  to  the  porch  of  Day. 


LOVE  IN  THE  DAWN 

Dawn,  with  hallowed  flame,  seemed  to  sing  your  name 
Through  our  open  window  as  the  golden  glory  came. 
Ardor  thrilled  me  through;  Dawn  again — with  you! 
"Up  and  at  the  world  again !    The  world  is  made  anew !" 

Newly  on  my  sight  flashed  the  lovely  light, 

All  the  ringing  roads  of  fame  glittered  broad  and  bright. 

On  again !  with  new  visions  to  pursue ; 

And  dawn  again,  dawn  again,  dawn  again — with  you! 

Other  dawns  may  keep  joy  as  pure  and  deep? 
Dawns  of  greater  splendor  may  awaken  me  from  sleep? 
Nay!  they  never  can  bless  a  stubborn  man 
Like  the  dawn,  the  wonder-dawn,  with  which  this  day 
began ! 

Oh,  my  deeds  must  take  triumph  for  its  sake ! 

Loud  my  heart  shall   sing  it  while  the  mind   remains 

awake : 

Words  I  never  knew  could  so  thrill  me  through — 
Dawn  again,  dawn  again,  dawn  again — with  you ! 


[7] 


MAY  CELEBRANTS 

Winter,  the  dotard,  with  snow-splashed  hollies 
Wry-wreathed  on  his  sleety  streaming  hair, 
Has  fled  from  the  rout  of  the  April  follies, 
Pelted  with  petals,  to  scorn  stripped  bare; 
Snowy  smother  and  sleety  glare 
Washed  by  the  showers  to  swell  the  sea. 
The  scattering  streams  are  on  their  way. 
'Tis  triumph  for  every  bud  and  wing! 
The  doublets  of  all  the  trees  are  gay. 
The  burdened  branches  flutter  and  fling 
Spikenard  odors  to  scent  this  May 
With  sweetness  for  every  heart  today. 
Then  up  and  away — away — away — 
Away  down  the  magic  ways  of  spring! 

Rivers  of  ripple-dream,  rivers  roiling, — 

Aisles  of  the  forest,  whose  carpets  deep 

Blue  firstlings  broider  with  fairy  patterns 

Where  mouldy  Fall  leaves  once  slept, — the  slatterns ! 

Purge  us  and  shower  a  soul's  assoiling ! 

Oh,  sweeten  our  souls  as  we  breathe  yours  deep! 

Shower  us  round  with  your  flash  and  light, 

Wonder  immortal  and  infinite ! 

Here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

As  a  hare  from  its  form,  as  a  bird  from  cover, 

The  ecstatic  soul  starts  forth,  aware 


MAY  CELEBRANTS 

Of  the  winds  of  spring  and  their  rapturous  wine,- 
Starts  passionate  pilgrim  and  thirsting  lover 
To  new  spells  of  distance  and  views  made  over 
Where  freshly  vestitured  vistas  shine. 

We  are  one  with  the  impulse  of  the  sod, 
With  the  flower's  dream  and  the  flower's  God, 
With  the  burning  bronze  of  the  patriarch  trees, 
With  the  burst  of  sky  in  the  open  glade, — 
Uplifted,  Olympic,  and  unafraid ! 
We  are  beauty's  bondmen  on  trembling  knees, 
And  aspen  leaves  at  an  aspen's  nod. 

Oh,  tell  us,  river  so  deep  to  gaze  in, 
Diaphane  that  the  sunlight,  the  elflight  plays  in, 
Where  tossing  tresses  of  brown  and  green 
Ripple  and  run  crystal  whorls  between, 
Where  the  little  wimpled  wavelets  dance, 
Toss  fingers,  and  flicker  a  roguish  glance, — 
Oh,  tell  us,  is  not  your  dream  to  be 
In  the  cherishing  arms  of  your  lover  the  sea, 
Welcomed  and  soothed  on  the  breast  of  the  sea, 
That  you  hasten  onward  so  joyfully? 

Here  at  the  high  cliff's  foot,  its  thunder, 
Shocking  reverberance  of  its  might, 
The  great  athlete  sea,  of  majestic  light 
And  furious  breakers,  and  sound  rolled  under; 
With  hiss  and  sparkle  and  seethe;  deep-hued 
With  stains  that  some  sea-god's  death  imbrued! 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Here  to  sonorous  litany 

Squadron  on  squadron  the  breakers  flee, 

Dash  and  wrestle  and  clasp  and  drown. 

And  afar  we  know,  though  we  may  not  see, 

Old  Triton,  dripping  and  gurgled  deep, 

With  his  trident,  is  loosing  the  gulls  alea; 

Marshalling  his  host,  green  steep  on  steep, 

For  assault  where  the  drifted  dune-banks  sleep ! 

Into  the  woods ! — for  a  light  foot  spurns 

Its  marge,  where  the  violets  kiss  the  ferns. 

Into  the  woods  ! — for  a  goddess  flees 

Rosy  and  laughing  between  the  trees. 

Yet  ever  her  draperies,  streaming  free, 

Elude  us,  this  daylight,  to  grasp  and  hold. 

A  bird  is  her  breast,  and  her  veins  run  light. 

She  is  not  for  us  in  her  madcap  flight. 

She  is  far  too  shy — she  is  far  too  bold ! 

So  night  draws  on.     Till  presently 

With  gem-like  lustres  the  stars'  soft  fire 

Jewels  the  boughs  of  that  darkest  tree 

Whither  gleams  our  goddess.     One  gesture  bright 

And — symbol  of  rapture  and  rich  desire — 

Through  the  rough,  brown  bark  she  fades  from  sight ! 


[10] 


BROTHER 

I  could  not  tell  you  though  I  were  crucified 

The  depth  of  my  love  for  you.    Well,  they  call  it  "pride"  ! 

But — come  and  walk  with  me ! 

Hold  your  peace  or  talk  with  me, — 
All  that  matters  now  to  me  is — you  are  at  my  side. 

Do  I  remember!    You  bring  the  Age  of  Gold. 
Wonder-dreams  we  wove  once  your  words,  your  ways 
unfold. 

(Deep  in  the  heart  of  me 

This  !)     You  are  part  of  me, 
Far  the  finer  part  of  me — as  it  was  of  old. 

So — I  debate  you  o'er  all  the  things  we  share. 
Folk  might  think  I  hate  you,  for  all  I  seem  to  care. 

You  will  understand  it,  though. 

Men  with  men  have  planned  it  so. 
I  am  so  afraid  you  might  catch  me  unaware 

Gazing — yes,  gazing,  as  any  woman  might 

Fondly  in  your  face,  at  your  eyes'  quick  laughing  light, 

Fondly, — meet  for  scorning! 

Brother  of  our  morning! 
Aye,  and  when  my  need  was,  brother  through  the  night! 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  land  of  the  giants  is  an  old  and  dark  and  cold  land. 
Aye,  still  it  frowns  around  us,  as  of  old  we  read  and 

knew. 
'Tis  a  cruel  Do-your-worst  and  a  gloating  All-for-gold 

land, 
Far  truer  than  the  fairy-tales.     Would  God  it  were  not 

true! 

The    land    of    the    giants!      Like    a    thunder-cloud    it 

cumbers 

The  skies  of  song  and  dream ;  and  afar  its  shadow  falls ; 
And  still  we  hear  the  breathing  of  the  giants  in  their 

slumbers 
As  they  loom  on  high  above  us.     Yet  a  song  my  heart 

recalls 

Saith, — "Louder   still    and   shriller    whistled   Jack    the 

giant-killer. 
With  his  darning-needle  sword  flashing  dauntless  as  it 

whirled. 
And  he  strode   with  defiance   through  the  land  of  the 

giants, 
His   heart   aflame   with   valor  for   the   righting   of   the 

world/' 

'Twas  a  day  gray  as  this  when  he  balanced  on  the  bean 
stalk 

And  climbed  to  their  kingdom  through  the  mirk  that 
hangs  abhorred 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  GIANTS 

Like  a  shroud  above  our  cities,  like  a  pall  of  heavy 
pities. 

And  he'd  just  his  heart  for  buckler,  and  a  darning- 
needle  sword. 

Though  that  land  than  death  was  stiller,  whistled  Jack 

the  giant-killer, 

"I've  a  charm  for  all  harm !     I  am  little,  but  I'm  bold !" 
So  he  mustered  self-reliance,  in  the  land  of  the  giants, 
And  he  marched  on  their  mountains  with  a  shrug  against 

the  cold. 

The   land   of   the   giants!      In    their    valley   lay   they 

sleeping, 
Supine   colossal   shadows;    and   the   bones    of   men   of 

might, — 
Of    sages,    and    reformers,    and    of    champions,    were 

heaping 
The   ruined   waste    around   them,   thickly   strewn   and 

ghastly  white. 

The  hills  behind  were  covered  with  their  castles'  walls 
and  towers 

That  crouched  like  shackled  gryphons  in  the  yellow- 
vapored  gloom; 

And  a  bell  among  the  mountains  dinged  and  donged  the 
dragon  hours 

With  a  deep  sonorous  clangor  like  the  tocsin-bell  of 
doom. 

[13] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

The  darning-needle  sword  caught  a  shaft  of  light,  and 

glinted 
Like  love  beneath  oppression,  as  our  Jack,  with  catlike 

tread 
Came  swiftly  round  the  rocks  'mid  the  sleepers;  and  he 

squinted 
With  watchful,  narrowed  eyes  at  each  huge  and  snoring 

head. 

Then  he  pricked,  now  here,  now  there.    Then  he  leaped. 

The  giants  blundered 
With  bellowing  to  their  feet.    Loud  they  questioned  each 

of  each. 
Then  they  grappled  each  the  other,  and  their  fighting 

roared  and  thundered 
Re-echoing  to  the  mountains;  Jack  just  dancing  out  of 

reach ! 

So — ah,  the  tale  is  old! — as  they  roared  and  raged  and 

rumbled, 
Jack's  sword-pricks  still  beset  them;  till,  with  sudden 

earthquake  sound, 

At  last  in  mortal  agony  each  monstrous  giant  tumbled 
Disastrous   from  the  heavens,  and  lay   gasping  on  the 

ground ! 

And    far   away   the   mountain   bell   went   tolling   their 

disaster, 
While  Jack  just  wiped  his  darning-needle  sword,  and 

winked  an  eye. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  GIANTS 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  said.     "Ho!  ho!"  he  said.     "The  little 

man's  your  master ! 
You  only  had  to  meet  with  me  to  know  the  reason  why !" 

And  louder  yet,  and  shriller,  whistled  Jack  the  giant- 
killer, 

And  sheathed  his  sword,  and  faced  about,  and  marched 
him  back  again, 

With  a  strut  of  proud  defiance,  through  the  land  of  the 
giants. 

And  he  left  their  heavy  corpses  lying  prone  upon  the 
plain ! 


When  too  high  seems  the  sky,  and  God's  justice  long 

withholden ; 
When  too  dark  seems  the  night,  and  the  day  too  gross 

with  pride; 
When  the  hulking  giants  loom  o'er  our  world  as  in  the 

olden 
Days    of    fairy-legends, — may    Jack    Dauntless    be    our 

guide ! 

For,  "Louder  still  and  shriller  whistled  Jack  the  giant- 
killer, 

With  his  darning-needle  sword  waving  dauntlessly  before. 

And  he  strode  with  defiance  through  the  land  of  the 
giants; 

In  his  might  he  laid  about  him;  and — the  giants  were  no 
more!" 

[is] 


THE  MAD  SCULPTOR 

Far  up  in  the  quarry 
I  hewed  a  stone  for  pure  delight, — 
Far  up  in  the  quarry  that's  gashed  in  the  mountainside. 
I  chipped  the  stone  and  the  flakes  flew  white. 
I  thought  a  wonder  dazzling  bright. 
I  caught  my  dream  in  a  grasp  of  might 

And  wrought  it  wild  with  pride. 

Sun  blazed  o'er  the  quarry. 
The  sweat  was  on  my  shoulders  wet. 

Over  me  hung  the  forest  that  manes  the  mountainside. 

I  flung  my  strength  on  the  stubborn  stone. 

I  wrung  at  length  from  the  stubborn  stone 

A  strong  king  on  a  granite  throne 

Clung  by  his  glorious  bride. 

His  face  shone  in  the  quarry. 
Above  her  grace,  a  granite  face, — 

Rock  of  the  rocky  quarry — a  king  on  the  mountainside. 
I  carved  her  drapery  every  fold. 
I  scarved  her  shoulders,  struck  to  gold, 
I  starved  for  her  face  till  Time  grew  old 

And  faltered  in  its  tide. 

The  light  failed  in  the  quarry, 
And  in  my  breast  the  passion  ceased. 
The  light  failed  in  the  quarry;  it  failed  from  the  moun 
tainside. 

[16] 


THE  MAD  SCULPTOR 

But  I  at  length  had  wrought  alone 
Beauty  and  strength  so  wed  in  stone — 
My  eyes  went  blind.     I  stumbled  prone, 
And  cared  not  if  I  died ! 

Far  up  in  the  quarry 
Night  and  the  stars  are  over  me ! 

Far  up  in  the  quarry  my  glimmering  sculpture  stands. 
Though  I  be  dead,  yet  verily 
The  sculptor  of  Eternity 
Stands  in  the  starlight  over  me 

And  reaches  me  his  hands  ! 


(17 


THE  FORD  OF  TRANSFIGURATION 

O  dreamful  Jason,  at  the  roaring  ford 
Of  life's  Anaurus,  now  she  pleads  with  thee, 
The  crouching  beldame,  grim  Reality. 
Uplift  her  bravely,  trusting  in  thy  Lord ! 
Howsoe'er  wearisome,  howe'er  deplored, 
Dare  'neath  her  weight  the  dark  profundity 
Of  midnight  waters,  with  thy  spirit  free 
And  resolute  for  truth,  thy  soul  a  sword ! 

Her  weight  increases  still?    Yet  struggling  on 
Thy  feet  shall  win  the  misty  farther  shore, 
And  there  the  truth  that  wreathes  an  older  story 
Greet  thee  with  splendors  of  a  sudden  dawn, — 
The  heavy  hag  thy  dauntless  shoulders  bore 
Flash  on  thine  eyes  as  queen  of  heaven's  glory ! 


[18] 


THE  SCHOOLROOM  OF  POETS 

An  Autumn  dusk  darkened  my  window-panes  .    .    . 
I  saw  a  jewelled  lamp  with  silver  chains 
Glow  'gainst  my  wall — the  lamp  of  Poetry, 
Wreathing  me  'round  with  mists  of  memory 
Breathing  rich  names.     And  then — a  voice  it  was — 
"Where  left  you  Chrononhotonthologos, 
A  Ideborontiphoscophornio?" 
The  battering  syllables  came  tense  and  low, 
Stirring  to  laughter  with  their  quaint  bombast. 

And  then  I  saw  that  I  had  somehow  passed 
Into  an  ancient  schoolroom,  raftered  low 
And  dusk  and  dim,  save  for  a  firelight  glow 
Making  the  walls  with  grotesque  shadows  dance. 
There,  near  the  fire,  some  huddled  boys  by  chance 
Were  tracing  pothooks,  whispering,  sharpening  pens; 
And  the  strange  words  I  heard  had  come  from  thence. 
The  bluecoat  boy  who  spoke  them  turned  his  head. 
"Digne  Mastre  Canynge,"  was  the  next  he  said. 
"Your  arcublastries  and  your  asenglaves 
Be  wychencref  to  brayde  emmertleynge  staves ! 
The  fetive  baubles  of  the  song  I  reap 
Toss  like  emblazoned  banners  in  a  keep. 
Besprent  with  comets  is  my  brigandine; 
Damoiselle  Poesie  my  daised  queen. 
Brystowans,  kneel!     In  fiery  meteors  dight 
With  ye,  dull  Saracens,  I  join  the  fight 

[19] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Like  to  King  Richard,  lyoncelle  of  war !  .   .   . 
Above  St.  Mary's  hangs  a  blazing  star. 
This  parchment — this — !" 

And  in  the  firelit  gloom, 
As  in  the  Church's  ancient  charter-room, 
The  child  large-headed  knelt  beside  a  chest, 
Oblivious  to  the  converse  of  the  rest, 
Scanning  the  documents  whence  he  would  draw 
That  work  that  Walpole  set  without  the  law, — 
That  fifteenth-century  hoax  that  echoes  still 
Even  to  the  crest  of  steep  Parnassus  hill. 

Quaint,  elfish  knight  of  Bristol  and  of  London, — 
Swordsman  of  satire,  Holborn  soon  saw  undone 
When  Want  as  an  armed  man  stood  by  your  side/ 
Midget  of  genius  and  imperious  pride, 
You  and  your  Rowley  shine  at  last  enskied ! 

And  then  another  voice  withdrew  my  gaze 
From  the  child-fashioner  of  archaic  lays, — 
Another  poet?    His  vivacious  eyes 
Glittered  with  dreams.     A  Latin  exercise 
Fluttered  from  off  his  knee.    And  then  he  bent 
His  tossed  brown  curls  upon  his  book  intent. 
Tooke's  "Pantheon"  or  Marmontel's  "Peru," 
Which  held  him  breathlessly  I  never  knew, — 
Whether  the  old  Athenians  passed  him  there 
Wearing  the  golden  tettix  in  their  hair, 


THE  SCHOOLROOM  OF  POETS 

In  the  broad  agora  mingling  their  himations 
For  arguments,  rejoicings,  protestations 
O'er  laws, — or  the  alacritous  hyaline 
Parted  to  show  the  god  Apollo  shine 
Bending  his  ivory  bow, — or  if,  again, 
Keats  climbed  the  Andes  with  Pizarro's  men, 
Their  steel  cuirasses  glittering  'neath  the  snows 
Where  Cuzco's  fate  would  soon  be  Mexico's 
And  Atahuallpa's  dungeon  shine  in  state 
With  golden  goblets  and  with  golden  plate 
Piled  for  his  ransom — and  his  mortal  loss 
To  cruel  cavaliers,  who  bore  the  Cross. 

The  room  seemed  vibrant  with  great  song  that  calls 

The  ages  slave,  as  once  on  Carian  walls 

Apojlo  laid  his  lyre,  and  all  the  stones 

Resounded  in  harmonic  undertones. 

Round  that  brown  head  that  housed  no  thoughts  of  fame 

Flickered  the  bright,  authentic,  Tullian  flame! 

I  roused  at  last. 

A  homely,  pock-marked  face, 
With  kindly  eyes,  met  mine,  as  from  his  place 
Young,  wise,  erratic  Goldsmith  smiled, — the  boy 
Whom  the  old  quartermaster  near  Lissoy 
First  taught  of  ghosts,  banshees,  and  leprechauns, 
(To  rival  young  John's  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fauns), 
And  stirred  with  tales  of  the  Allies  in  Spain, 
Of  Port  Mahon,  and  Barcelona  ta'en, 
Of  Stanhope  at  Brihuega  lost  to  hope, 
Of  freakish  Mordaunt,  friend  of  Swift  and  Pope, — 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Battles  and  heroes,  camp  and  counterscarp, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  sad,  sweet  Irish  harp 
Keening  Cuchullain. 

Of  the  Fortunate  Isles 

You  knew,  who  knew  "the  daggers  in  men's  smiles" ; 
Fluting  the  fops  to  rustic  heydeguys. 
Sweet  missel-thrush  that  sang  'neath  lowering  skies ! 
You  lifted  golden  landfalls  on  Despair's 
Dark  sea  !     O  Lydian  touchstone  of  sweet  airs  ! 
Nor  you  forgot  your  Axe-yard  beggary 
When  Newberry's  counting-house  paid  forth  your  fee, — 
In  purple  smallclothes,  scarlet  roquelaure, 
And  fine  lace  neckcloth,  standing  by  the  door 
To  dispense  bounty, — and  thence  merrily 
To  the  "Turk's  Head,"  or  to  the  Thrales  for  tea, 
Where  Burke  and  Reynolds  with — not  at — you  laughed, 
And  Boswell  raged  at  many  a  quiet  shaft. 
"Inopem  copia  fecit!"  ghosts  must  say 
Who  mocked  your  small-talk  in  their  Georgian  day. 

Here  you  sat  dreaming  with  a  whimsied  mirth, 
Toasting  your  toes  before  the  fires  of  Earth ! 

Then  I  perceived  that  in  that  schoolroom  warm 
"Brown  Silks"  sat  by  "Mad  Shelley"  on  one  form, 
Their  arms  entwined,  while  Shelley,  fair  and  slight, 
With  gleaming  hair  and  round  blue  eyes  alight, 
Told  of  the  dragon  in  Saint  Leonard's  wood, 
Or  of  the  alchemist  none  understood 
Who  lived  in  Field  Place  attic. 


THE  SCHOOLROOM  OF  POETS 

And  the  child 

Of  splendid  churchly  visions  bobbed  and  smiled, 
Shy  with  his  words,  but  near  as  elf  to  elf, 
Quoting  some  bit  of  Shakspere  to  himself 
Or  Latin  tag,  with  luminous  eyes  of  awe, 
As  in  the  dormitories  of  Ushaw. 

So  faded  that  old  schoolroom,  as  its  fire 
Died,  and  the  shadows  gulfed  the  seats  entire; 
And,  as  I  woke,  sharp  on  my  window-pane 
Came  the  quick  rattle  of  the  falling  rain. 

Far  more  than  in  their  verse,  than  in  their  prime, 
I  love  my  poets  in  their  seeding  time. 
What  words  could  match  that  close  and  vivid  charm, 
Boy-dreamers  by  the  fireside,  arm  on  arm ! 


"ALL  THE  MORNING" 

"We  have  all  this  morning !"    And  she  turned 

In  the  quiet  sunshine  of  the  room 

Toward  one  window  open  on  the  gay 

Full-tide  frolic  of  that  summer  day. 

Trellised  leaves  that  danced  to  see  her  dress, 

All  the  flowers  that  blew,  all  light  that  burned 

Seemed  that  instant  schooled  and  mannered  things 

Miming  Joy  with  antic  caperings, — 

Artful  shows  beside  an  artlessness 

I  discerned. 

Yes,  the  day  had  bloom, 
Laughing  sun  and  emerald  scintillance, 
Birds  that  warbled  all  their  jubilance 

Past  demur; 
Yet  delight  was  only  real  in  her. 

Ah,  delight,  delight, 

Young  delight  that  knows  no  reason  wherefore, — 
Living  joy,  o'erflooding  thoughts  of  Night 
With  that  laughter  Pain's  parched  lips  would  drink  of,- 
Speech  that  breaks  to  song  and  flight  on  flight 
Of  that  sparkling  mirth  God  made  the  air  for, — 
Feet  forever  dancing  forth  to  see 

Days  of  miracle  and  imagery, — 

Ah,  delight,  delight, 
Tiring  not  from  early  dawn  to  night, — 

See !     Upon  the  brink  of 
Old  abysses,  our  deformed  despair 
Harks  among  steep  fastnesses  to  hear 


"ALL  THE  MORNING" 

Your  triumphant  music  on  the  air, 

Drawing  near; 

And  his  twisted  lips  and  haggard  eyes 
Doubt  his  own  surmise. 
Till  the  bitter  gray 
Of  his  Self-palled  day 
Suddenly  rends  around  him,  and  discloses 
All  Earth's  best  in  flower, 
Every  dreaded  hour 
Bright  with  hopes  and  garlanded  with  roses ! 

"We  have  all  this  morning!"    And  the  view 
Opens  wide  anew, 

0  my  sweet,  whose  heart  held  nought  but  morning; 

Spirit  of  the  sun, 
Bright  immaculate  one, — 
All  these  hours  for  Life's  and  Love's  adorning!  .    , 

1  hear  again  those  simple  words  you  said 

Wheresoe'er  I  tread, 

From  still  cloud  and  sky  and  hill  and  river; 
For  Nature  had  no  voice  till  you  bade  "Rejoice!" 
And  your  human  voice  lives  on  forever. 
"We  have  all  this  morning !"    Flower  and  tree, 
Can  ye  say  it  as  her  memory  saith, 
Ye  whose  j  oy  her  j  oy  declared  dissembling  ? 
Nay !     But  virginal  humanity 
Holds  delight's  true  key, 

Perfect  utterance  giving 
For  her  moment  to  the  bliss  of  living, 
Though  bound  heir  to  tears  and  wrong  and  death 

And  the  cup  of  trembling ! 


THE  MESSENGER 

In  a  wild  merriment  of  wind  and  bird 

God's  gusty  laughter  swept  me  by  but  now 

Upon  my  desperate  errand,  wondering  how 

Her  heart  would  bear  the  truth,  who  ne'er  had  heard 

Death's  sudden  and  irrevocable  word. 

Yet  all  was  light  upon  the  upland  brow. 

Rich  golden  acres,  fruitful  from  the  plough, 

Languished  in  light.     The  great  sun  smiled  unstirred. 

Then  my  heart  raged  against  such  cruel  mirth 
And  to  my  lips  there  sprang  a  bitter  cry, 
"Would  I  were  Samson,  O  thou  mocking  sky, 
To  bring  thee  ruining  to  this  careless  earth ! 
O  proud  and  callous  Beauty,  flaunting  by 
Blind  to  our  agonies  of  death  and  birth!" 


CAFE  TORTONI   ('81) 

fidouard  Manet  (solus)  : 

The  Rue  Guyot  .    .    .  how  long  ago ! 
Emile !  .   .   .  A  bock !  ...  To  old  Belot ! 
That  foolish  Salon  loved  him  so. 
And  well  I  loved  him  in  those  days 
At  the  Cafe  Guerbois.     Ah,  well, 
Stevens,  Zola,  Astruc,  Cladel, 
Before  the  Second  Empire  fell 
What  theories  set  our  brains  ablaze ! 

Across  the  board  we'd  views  to  spare 

On  chiaroscuro  and  plein  air. 

Juries  were  damned.     'Twas  rare  to  swear 

At  ateliers.    But  then  the  flame 

Of  envy  that  our  Emperor  nursed — 

Fanned  by  the  Hohenzollern — burst 

To  conflagration  doubly  curst. 

Across  the  Rhine  the  Germans  came. 

The  tap  of  drum,  the  clank  of  sword, — 
How  soon  the  Red  Republic  roared, 
When  Fabian  Trochu  dared  afford 
To  shift  and  gloss  and  squirm  in  vain, 
While  Garibaldi  crouched  afar 
Watching  my  country's  crimson  star 
Ride  o'er  the  ranks  of  raving  War 
With  Art  chained  captive  in  her  train ! 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Then,,  Monsieur  Thiers,  you  saved  the  soul 
Of  France.    But  fate  is  very  droll. 
We  few,  "Ecole  aux  Batignolles," — 
Pouf ! — like  the  dust  dispersed  and  fled. 
England  or  Holland,  art  or  fame, 
Gentle  distaste,  or  fear  of — shame? — 
Dissolved  us.     Mine  no  martial  name, 
Though  I  took  arms.    Bazille — is  dead. 

Yet,  is  such  scuffling  truly  war 

Compared  with  striving  for  one  star 

"To  be  oneself"?    Why  then  we  are 

Outcasts,  pariahs,  what  you  will. 

Of  this  some  Mantz  shrieks  "Patchwork!" — this, 

"Grand  Art  degraded !"    How  they  hiss 

When  two  bright  colors  meet  and  kiss ! 

Who  knows  but  they  are  hissing  still. 

And  still  the  independents  surged 
To  victory!     The  Jury's  purged. 
Gervex  has  told  me  how  they  urged 
More  votes  to  make  my  medal  sure. 
And  here  I  sit  as  proud  and  pale 
As  some  David  of  fairy-tale 
In  one  stiff  style  grown  old  and  stale ! 
I  pinch  myself — but  facts  endure. 

My  God,  what  did  the  critics  know 

At  first  of  Courbet  or  Corot, — 

The  vital  world,  the  to-and-fro, 

Or  light,  true  light !    Black  death  they  died. 

[«*] 


CAFfi  TORTONI  ('81) 

Their  models — struck  an  attitude. 
"The  proper  function  of  the  nude !" 
I — I  was  mad,  and  I  was  "crude." 
But  it  was  life  for  which  I  cried. 

Monsieur  Couture,  dear  fool  sublime, 
Am  I  the  "Daumier  of  my  time"  ? 
(Though  it  were  praise  so  high  to  climb !) 
Or  did  your  veins  run  blood — or  paint  ? 
Yet,  I  was  young  (and  youth  is  crass) 
To  cite  Giorgione  to  each  ass 
Who  slimed  my  "Luncheon  on  the  grass," 
When  every  critic  showed  his  taint. 

Thank  God  young  art  still  breathes  and  dares ! 

Hail  to  these  younger  men  from  Gleyre's ! 

The  colored  shadows  that  are  theirs 

(That  violet  of  my  "Pertuiset") 

Show — 'mid  the  ancients  though  they  sought  hei 

How  only  truth  claims  art  as  daughter. 

Mark  that  new  Raphael  of  water, 

My  multiflowering  Claude  Monet ! 

Still  they  will  mock  my  jeux  d' esprit, 
Cat,  parrot,  bright  green  balcony. 
My  palette  takes  the  higher  key 
Perforce, — for  radiant  nature  cries 
From  field  and  tree  and  form  and  face 
Of  richness  hid,  of  vibrant  grace, 
Of  vivid  light,  and  life  I  trace 
Through  all,  because — I  have  my  eyes ! 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Yet,  Berthe,  you — ah,  need  I  say  ? 
One  of  the  greatest  of  my  day ! 
Grant  me  a  Stephane  Mallarme 
For  right  inflection  of  your  praise ! 
The  Louvre,  do  you  recall  it  yet? 
'Twas  Tintoretto  when  we  met. 
Then  you  talked  Corot.     Ne'er  forget 
Those  your  art's  first,  Arcadian  days ! 

Where  is  that  furious  Pierre  Baudelaire, 
Swashbuckler  of  the  green-dyed  hair  ? 
He  loved  my  Spaniards.     "Ah,  but  rare !" 
O'er  my  Lola  I  heard  him  rave, — 
In  my  first  "Chanteur  Espagnol" 
Swift  to  forecast  my  chosen  goal. 
And  Emile  Zola !    Each  a  soul ! 
Then  life  was  turbulent,  youth  was  brave. 

Under  the  awnings  of  Madrid 

(No  dishes  viler  'neath  a  lid!) 

I  would  that  I  had  longer  hid 

Though  their  cuisine  had  furred  my  mouth. 

Some  sorcery  breathes  through  Spain,  I  swear. 

But  I — am  Paris.    Why  despair? 

My  boyhood  once  breathed  foreign  air  .   .   . 

Painting  Dutch  cheeses  .   .   .  sailing  South ! 

The  Spanish  food  .   .   .  what  food  is  fit? 
I  condescend  to  fathom  it. 
Now  these  raw  oysters  .   .   .  Wait  a  bit ! 
Such  nacre  it  is  all  poets  cry, 

[SO] 


CAFfi  TORTONI  ('81) 

And  once  its  soul  did  I  evoke, — 
Still-life  that  knew  my  master-stroke, 
Immortal  oysters — tsch! — I  choke. 
And  I  have  lived  to  paint  them — // 

In  the  next  Salon,  something  new. 
Grant  that  my  cunning  bear  me  through, 
111  hang  a  Bar-room  then !    There  too 
Like  glory  lurks,  if  once  unfurled. 
Let  this  ataxia  cramp  my  hand, — 
Some  day,  perhaps,  they'll  understand, 
Though  Hors  Concours,  that,  as  I  planned, 
I  left  them — well — a  living  world ! 


THE  THINKER'S  VISION 

Those  aerial  osier  bridges 

Swung  from  Cordilleran  ridges, 

O'er  a  gulf  of  dizzy  blue, 

That  the  native  of  Peru 

Treads  so  nimbly,  where  most  querulous 

Souls  would  balk  the  passage  perilous — 

Like  to  them  our  reason  is, 

Swung  across  a  wild  abyss. 

Daring  spirits  grasp  its  strands 
With  their  immaterial  hands. 
All  save  recreants  know  its  urge, 
Venturing  from  the  hither  verge. 
Only  spirits  crystal  pure 
Find  their  footing  quite  secure. 
Souls  clear-gold,  burnt  clean  of  dross, 
Rapturous-swift  may  only  cross. 

For  mere  armament  of  mind 
Plunges  from  it  to  the  blind 
Mists  below,  and  mere  emotion 
Reels  to  plumb  the  selfsame  ocean. 
Frail  its  subtle  silver  cords 
Woven  of  a  million  words ; 
Frailer  yet  its  guardian  ghosts, 
Pale  in  multitudinous  hosts ! 


THE  THINKER'S  VISION 

Tenuous,  beauty-curved,  and  bright, 
So  it  sways  across  our  night, 
Clouded  height  to  clouded  height. 

So  I  see  it  glorious 

For  the  single  soul  and  mind 

And  the  heart  victorious 

With  the  passion  of  mankind. 

Every  strand  is  finer  gold 

Than  a  thousand  tomes  have  told. 

Faiths  and  fears,  delight,  despair, 

Wove  it  out  of  thinnest  air. 

Brain  and  heart  and  spirit  breath 
Breathed  it  o'er  the  gulfs  of  death, 
As  a  spider's  web  is  spun, 
Glistering  through  floods  of  sun, 
Glimmering  through  wracks  of  cloud 
To  a  cliff  how  brightly  browed, 
How  superb  a  citadel, 
Scarcely  any  thought  can  tell. 

Oh,  the  challenge,  splendidly 
Ringing  from  Eternity 
O'er  the  gulf's  profundity! 
Love,  dare  thou  the  gulf  with  me ! 


[33] 


THE  POWERFUL 

When  baffled  days  seem  each  to  drag  a  chain, 
Dead  hopes  are  laid  in  mortuary  of  Fate, 
And  our  small  hearts  lament  the  wide  estate 
God  gave  them  for  vast  dreams  that  bring  no  gain, 
Remains  the  soft,  hushed  power  of  snow  and  rain, 
Of  little  flowers,  that  sunder  rocks  too  great 
For  Thor  to  cleave.     Mark  how  this  frost  of  late 
With  glazier's  emeril  works  upon  the  pane ! 

Know  you  the  silent  force  of  growing  grain, — 
How  the  winged  pine-seed  drifts  to  recreate  ? 
With  tedious  hydraulics,  seeming  vain, 
The  tiny  ant  might  undermine  a  state. 
Or  tell  me,  how  was  mighty  Baldur  slain, 
Shy  mistletoe,  plucked  by  Valhalla's  gate? 


HOW  THE  WINNING  FOUR  WENT  HOME 

Superb  in  pride  we  strained  upon  the  golden  chariot-pole. 
Around    our   necks    were    garlands    gay,    and    garlands 

decked  the  wheels  that  day. 
Down    from   the   temple   thronged   the    crowd.      "Since 

Pegasus  was  foal 
Never  such  mighty  steeds  were  bred  as  these  of  Rome!" 

the  sages  said. 

But,  sneering,  that  Ardelian  swine  cried,  "Though  thou 

hast  the  race, 
Valerian,  I  yet  deny  thy  fat  and  pampered  steeds  can 

fly!" 
Our  master  turned.     "This  afternoon  had  proved  it  to 

thy  face 
Did  they  allow  such  slinking  shames  as  thou  to  view  the 

public  games !" 

Yet  in  our  master's  cheek  a  flame  flickered.     We  pawed 

anew. 
'  'Tis  sixty  stadia  to  my  home.     I  drive.     I  drive  full 

speed  from  Rome, 
Now, — when  my  steeds  have  won  a  race  that  strained 

their  every  thew ! 
I  drive  full  speed  to  Love's  abode.    Set  thy  swift  runners 

on  my  road!" 

[85} 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Braced  in  the  footholds  forward  leaned  our  master  with 

the  word. 
Forward  we  surged  and  struck  our  stride  with  eyes  afire 

and  nostrils  wide. 
Forth  through  the  streets  with  thundering  hoofs !     And 

far  behind  we  heard 
A  thousand  people  roar  acclaim,  shouting  o'er  all  our 

master's  name. 

We  flashed  upon  the  seaward  way  swifter  than  shafts  of 

fate, 
Likened  indeed  to  leaping  flames,  as  once  at  the  Circen- 

sian  games 
Some  praetor  praised  us.      Fair  before  the  thin  white 

road  lay  straight. 
And  swifter  still  we  heaved  and  sprang  till  the  strong 

chariot  rocked  and  rang. 

Oh,  often  from  the  splendid  Hill  the  sounding  march 

has  wound 

To  cross  the  forum  cheering  us  on  to  the  Circus  Maximus 
Where  seven  times  through  din  and  dust  the  goals  we 

girdled  round, — 
But  now  indeed  more  glory  shone  on  the  white  road  we 

took  alone! 

"A  little  villa  hid  in  vines !    A  face  I  fain  would  see!" 
So  clear  above  our  galloping  we  heard  our  master  gaily 
sing. 

[*] 


HOW  THE  WINNING  FOUR  WENT  HOME 

"Claudia,,  Claudia,  kind  and  grave,  thine  was  the  victory ! 
Thy  kiss,   thy  trustful  smile   and   calm  more  than   all 
Idumaean  palm!" 

How  often  from  our  alcoves  loosed  we  four  have  ramped 

superb, 
The  purple  napkin  for  a  sign  fluttering  down  to  launch 

our  line 
To  sudden  thunder  of  swift  hoofs  in  fury  none  could 

curb; 
Yet  now — our  master's  happy  song  urged  us  as  might  no 

triple  thong! 

So  soon,  with   Rome  a  dream  behind,  we  snuffed   and 

glimpsed  the  Sea. 
Through  dust  of  gold  we  swerved  and  slowed  our  pace 

along  the  farmstead  road 
Under  the  rosy  afterglow.     'Twixt  darkening  tree  and 

tree 
Her  villa  showed  a  square  of  light,  yellow  in  welcome, 

low  and  bright ! 

And  now  we  champ  sweet  grain  indeed  with  thyme  and 

clover  strewn. 
Fragrant   Massilian  is  poured  our  master  by  his   One 

Adored — 
Yet  were  her  voice  the  finer  choice!     And — yonder  sails 

the  moon ! 
Though  slumber  takes  us — still  they  talk  low-whispering 

in  the  ilex  walk ! 


[37] 


IN  THE  GALLERY 

Fields  of  Argenteuil, 
Where  the  summer  day 
Dreams  of  Claude  Monet; 

Poplars  black  and  stern, 
Grasses  where  we  learn 
Vivid  poppies  burn; 

Loveliness  repressed, 
Reticence  and  zest 
Subtly  manifest; 

Strength  and  tenderness 
Like  the  sky's  caress, 
Shades  that  heal  and  bless  ! 

Ah,  to  gaze  and  gaze 
Where  through  purest  grays 
Poppy  flamelets  blaze, 

And  black  trees  that  brood 
Consummate  our  mood 
To  beatitude ! 

So  from  frame  to  frame 
Bearing  each  his  name 
Back  at  last  I  came; 

[38] 


IN  THE  GALLERY 

And  the  elflike  child 
From  the  picture  smiled. 
Or — was  I  beguiled? 

Time  shall  cast  away 
Crowns — yet  you  shall  stay, 
Fields  of  Argenteuil ! 

Though  his  brush  could  pass 
Over  trees  and  grass 
Often  to  surpass, — 

Tints  of  trembling  light 
Exquisite  and  bright 
Shimmering  on  the  sight, — 

Leave  me  this  small  thing 

For  my  glorying, 

For  my  hid  well-spring; 

Fields  of  Argenteuil, 
Where  the  summer  day 
Dreams  of  Claude  Monet! 


[39] 


WINGS 

The  bay  was  bronzed  with  sunset,  and  so  light 
The  ripples  idled  on  the  gentle  tide 
That  we  who  swam  in  silence  side  by  side 
Paused;  shifted  poise;  and,  floating,  lost  our  sight 
In  a  vast  well  of  blue,  benign  and  bright, 
Just  ere  it  faded  and  the  clouds  were  dyed 
Saffron  and  crimson.     With  one  gasp  we  cried, 
"Thus  eagles  float,  through  heavens  of  pure  delight !" 

Then,  with  the  splendor  of  a  falling  star, 

Great  wings  swept  down ;  a  muffled  engine  whirred ; 

And,  iridescent  as  a  humming-bird, 

A  biplane  swooped  upon  us,  veered,  and  fled 

Chanting  Man's  realized  dream.  .   .  .  Yet  higher  far 

We  soared,  upbuoyed  on  waters  sunset-red ! 


(40] 


PEOPLE 

I  was  painting  dolphins  on  a  silver  sea 

When  a  genial,  j  awful  upstart  came  to  me. 

"Poof!"  he  cried.     "A  rum  thing! 

I  foretell  your  fate. 

Give  the  people  something 

They'll  appreciate ! 

People  want  the  vital.    People  love  the  real. 

Hence — your  just  requital!     You  are  too  ideal. 

No  one  does  as  you  do.    Wise  they  grow — and  rich !" 

All  I  crooned  was  "Who  do?    Who  do  which?" 

While  my  clarion  shattered  dawn's  resplendent  gold, 

Hobbled  up  a  tattered  grandsire,  glum  and  old. 

Cackling  "Lawksadaisy !" 

Stood  awhile,  and  spat. 

Then  he  said  "You're  crazy ! 

What's  the  good  of  that? 

People  want  the  mellow.     People  prize  the  mild. 

You  are  but  a  yellow  journal's  jaundiced  child. 

Fervor  for  the  few  does.    Wiser  heads  say  'Tut !'  " 

All  I  smiled  was  "Who  does  ?    Who  does  what?"  / 

Where  my  purple  vastures  know  not  days  or  hours, 
In  celestial  pastures  picking  stars  for  flowers, 

[41] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Midway  through  my  revel,  of  his  own  accord, 
Popped  a  little  devil  up  through  heavenly  sward. 
"Lord!   Is  this  your  fashion?   How  you're  wasting  time! 
People  pine  for  passion  mixed  with  their  sublime. 
People  are  romantic.    People  love  to  pry.  ..." 
Then  I  froze  that  antic  devil  with  my  eye. 
Then  I  pounced  upon  him.     Then  I  hurled  him  high 
Crimsonly  careering  down  the  whirling  sky, 
Sputtering  "You — you — you  will  hear  from  me  again!" 

"Whoo-oop!"    I    bellowed.      "Who    will?      Who    will? 
WHEN?" 


THE  RACING  CARS 

The  great  cars  careening  come  roaring  round  the  curve, 
The  dust  clouds  screening  their  onslaught  as  they  swerve. 
The  dense  crowd  watching  exhales  a  thrilling  sigh, 
Their  quick  breath  catching  as  the  cars  boom  by. 

Speed  on  the  straightaway — speed  is  what  they  need ! 
Speed  down  the  level — at  the  banked  curves,  speed ! 
Their  sharp  staccato  thunder  awakes  the  hills  to  wonder 
At  the  grimed,  masked  devils  that  drive  the  dragon  breed. 

I  closed  my  eyes  gazing,  and  saw  them  in  my  mind 

Up  the  far  hills  blazing,  and  roaring  up  the  wind, 

On  the  star-roads  leaping,  black  bulks  that  shoot  and 

sway, — 
Their  fierce  pace  keeping  on  the  fearful  Milky  Way. 

Speed  across  the  heavens — speed  was  their  need ! 
Speed,  with  the  meteors, — to  Doom's  gate,  speed ! 
Their  sharp  staccato  thunder  shook  sun  and  moon  with 

wonder, 
And  the  stars  whirled  wildly  before  the  dragon  breed. 

The  great  cars  careening  went  roaring  round  the  world 
With  madness  for  their  meaning  'mid  wild  dust  swirled; 
And  faster  still,  and  faster,  their  engines   ripped  and 

raced 
While  man  who  was  their  master  must  drive  in  haste. 

[43] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Speed  across  the  cities — speed  was  their  need ! 
Speed  down  the  valleys — up  the  high  hills,  speed! 
Until,  a  dying  wonder,  their  sharp  staccato  thunder 
Throbbed  away  through  chaos  that  claimed  the  dragon 
breed ! 


(44] 


IMAGINATION 

Rich  raptures,  you  say,  our  dreams  assume, 

Slaking  the  heart's  immortal  thirst? 

Only  the  old  we  reillume; 

But  think — to  have  dreamed  the  flowers  first! 

Think, — to  have  dreamed  the  first  blue  sea ; 
Imaged  every  illustrious  hue 
Of  the  earliest  sunset's  tapestry; 

And  the  snow, — and  the  birds,  when  their  songs  were 
new! 

Think, — from  the  blue  of  highest  heaven 

To  have  sown  all  the  stars,  to  have  whispered  "Light!" — 

Hung  a  moon  in  a  prismy  even, 

Spun  a  world  on  its  splendid  flight ! 

To  have  first  conceived  of  boundless  Space; 
To  have  thought  so  small  as  to  garb  the  trees ; 
All  planet  years  in  your  mind's  embrace, — 
And  the  midge's  life,  for  all  of  these ! 

And  Man  still  boasts  of  his  brain's  weak  best 
In  dream  or  invention;  from  first  to  last 
Blunders  'mid  wonders  barely  guessed, 
And  fondly  believes  that  his  thoughts  are  "vast" ! 


145] 


NORTHERN    CALIFORNIA    NIGHT 
(STRAITS  OF  CARQUINEZ) 

Like  miraculous  shining  electrum 
This    wide   amber    light. 
As   a  lyre  that  is   plucked  by  a   plectrum 
The  wind  in  the  firs  on  the  height, 
The  wind  with  its  resonant  breath ! 
And   the   shrillness    of   birds,    as   we   hear   it 
Caught    forth    from    this    stillness    like   death, 
Amazes    and   dazes   the   spirit! 

Does  a  murdered  man  drift  in  the  marshes 

With    wide,    staring    eyes? 
For  his   blood   stains   the   tules;   and   harsh  is 
The  voice  of  his  vengeance  that  cries 
Through  those  streaked  reds  swift-shimmering  to  bronze, 
As   the  tule-reeds   rustle   and   shiver 
Where  the  tall  eucalyptus  responds 
Red   and   silver,   agleam   o'er   the   river. 

Then  the  west  dulls  to  lead,  and  a  sally 

Of   blackbirds    goes    by 

Whistling    far    o'er    the    mist-brimming    valley, 
Sombre   streamers   that   fade   on   the   sky 
Through  the  duskiness  shredding  away; 
And  the  night  a  black  panther  comes  leaping 
From  the  hills  that  are  over  the  bay, 
From  his  lair  to  the  homes  of  the  sleeping. 

(46] 


NORTHERN  CALIFORNIA  NIGHT 

For  the  night  seems  a  beast  sudden-savage, 

A  terror  to  men, 

A  stealthy  beast  stalking  to  ravage ; 
And  we  long  for  the  firelight  again 
And  the  mingling  of  voices  grown  dear. 
For  vast  Voices  are  vibrant  around  us. 
Pointing  sharp  to  our  shadowy  sphere, 
See !    A  thousand  star-fingers  have  found  us ! 

Then  the  moon  like  a  delicate  carvel 
With  shrouds  of  bright  gauze 
Mounts  from  silver  cloud  surf.    At  the  marvel 
Our  hearts  throb  with  prescience — and  pause. 
Distant  planets  crowd  close.     Through  a  mist, 
From  blue  night's  holy  eileton  lifting, 
Some  ineffable  far  eucharist 
Hushes  heaven,  whence  radiance  is  drifting ! 


47] 


THE  VIVANDIERE   ('70) 

O  Yvonne, 
How  you  dazzled  in  the  dance! 

How  you  shone 
With  the  love  you  bore  for  France ! 

Slow  our  tread. 
Heads  are  bowed — each  head  is  bare — 

For  our  dead — 

(Brave  in  life;  in  death  how  rare!) 
For  our  dead  Death  has  wed  to   our   glory  and 
despair, 

For  Yvonne  the  Vivandiere! 

Soft  you  sped 
With  the  evening  from  our  lines 

Through  the  dread 
Coming  night,  'mid  clinging  vines; 
And  the  Germans  caught  and  bound  you 
As  you  spied, — and  thronged  around  you 
Haled  with  laughter  through  the  village  to  their 
feast  so  like  the  swine's. 

In  the  court 
Of  the  Inn  of  Good  Accord 

You  made  sport 
For  a  drunken  foe  abhorred, 
As  they  rolled  upon  their  benches 
Roaring  songs  of  wine  and  wenches. 
And  a  radiance  shone  around  you  like  the  glory  of 
the  Lord ! 

['*] 


THE  VIVANDI&RE  ('70) 

Pale  past  tears, 
Coarse  and  hostile  jest  and  boast 

Stunned  your  ears; 
Yet — a  gallant  little  ghost — 
•Swift,,  to  shouts  of  "Dance !    Some  dancing !" 
Flashed  your  bare  feet,  twinkling,  glancing; 
And  your  eyes  flamed  deep  with  splendor  like  the 
lifting  of  the  Host ! 

Was  it  known 
Where  your  comrade  soldiers  lay 

Nigh  the  town, 

Outposts  lurking,  close  at  bay, 
Creeping  nearer?     Nay!     These  drunken 
German  swine  knew  naught!     Your  shrunken 
Red-striped  skirt  was  kilted  round  you,  but  your 
face  went  deeper  gray. 

Then  it  flushed, 
As  you  glanced  from  man  to  man 

And  there  rushed 

Through  your  brain  a  mighty  plan. 
Swift  and  swifter  whirled  the  dance 
To  "A  moi!" — "Victoire!" — "La  France!" 
Murmured  first — then  sung — then   shouted,  while 
the  Teutons  clinked  the  can. 

Would  the  scorned 
Skies  of  night  not  right  our  wrong, 

As  you  warned — 
While  they  thought  you  sang  a  song? 

[49] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Would  the  winds  of  night  not  bear  us 
Some  least  echo  to  prepare  us  ? 
Swift  you  whirled.     Shrill,  far  you  shouted;  till 
you  stirred  the  drunken  throng. 

But  they  thought 

That  the  drink  had  made  you  gay. 

They  forgot 

In  our  ambush  where  we  lay. 
And,  if  Heaven  had  meant  to  save  us, 
What  a  Heaven-sent  chance  you  gave  us. 
Yet  we  heard  not  and  we  knew  not,  all  as  dull  and 
dense  as  they ! 

Yet  till  Death, 
Girl,  you  failed  not  in  your  dance. 

Your  last  breath 

Shrieked  "La  France!     La  France!     La  France!" 
And  our  Emperor's  heart-beats  heightened 
As  the  far  East  faintly  lightened. 
But  we   slept — and   had   not   heard  you.      Battle 
dawned — and  died  our  chance ! 

Then  despair 
Gripped  your  heart  in  icy  hold. 

You  fell  there, 

Suddenly — stiff,  dumb,  and  cold, 
Heart  dead-stopped  to  voice  and  dancing; 
With  the  battle-dawn  advancing 
Where  the  first  wild  clouds  of  sunrise  o'er  the 
kindling  mountains  rolled! 

[50] 


THE  VIVANDIfeRE  ('70) 

Through  all  France 
In  a  week  the  rumor  ran 

Of  your  dance 
In  the  dawn  before  Sedan. 
And  the  gloom  a  little  lightened 
As  your  glad  deed  grew  and  brightened, 
Though    our    Empire    crashed    to    chaos    to    the 
Teuton's  rataplan. 

Valor  more 
Than  that  Captain's  foully  slain 

At  the  door 

Of  the  staircase  toward  the  Seine 
Where  Eugenie  fled  by  night 
And  he  covered  long  her  flight 
'Gainst  a  cursing,  raging  rabble  with  red  murder 
in  its  brain ! 

Not  the  glow 
Of  the  Little  Corporal's  fame 

Thrills  us  so, — 

Not  MacMahon's  noble  name, — 
As  that  fearless  girl  swift-glancing 
Into  last  despairing  dancing 

For  one  hope — that  France  might  waken  ere  the 
destined  burst  of  flame. 

0  Yvonne, 
How  you  dazzled  in  the  dance! 

How  you  shone 
With  the  love  you  bore  for  France! 

[51} 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Slow  our  tread. 
Heads  are  bowed — each  head  is  bare — 

For  our  dead — 

(Brave  in  life;  in  death  how  rare!) 
For  our  dead  Death  has  wed  to  our  glory  and 
despair^ 

For  Yvonne  the  Vivandiere! 


[52] 


REPRISALS 

Our  words  were  spoken,  and  our  hate  found  tongue; 
But,  through  the  great  bright  flame  of  Anger,  broke 

Livid  and  serpentine 

Flickerings  of  malice.    Like  to  snakes  they  stung. 
Where  righteous  wrath  had  burned  us  pure,  we  spoke 
Instead  the  little  things — small  things  and  mean. 

Oh,  strike  out  from  the  shoulder,  or  forget! 
That  is  the  man's  way ;  but  this  blackening  bile, — 

That  rots  the  heart  of  right 

Though  right  be  thine, — keeps  wounds  forever  wet 
And  festering,  with  distilments  mixed  by  guile, 
Till  a  man's  soul  turns  reptile  in  its  spite. 

Frankly  affront  offense,  or  grant  "Forgiven!" 
God,  for  how  many  an  issue  we  implore 

Just  lightnings !    Then  it  breaks — 
The  culminating  storm-cloud — shaming  Heaven, 
Not  with  the  lion's  bold  and  forthright  roar, 
But  with  the  hissing  of  a  thousand  snakes ! 


58] 


ON  GRACE  CHURCH  CORNER 

Beneath  the  stone-flowered,  lozenged  steeple 

In  the  close-shuttered  tower 
Mellow-tongued  church-bells  charm  the  people 

Thronging  the  hot  noon  hour. 

Above  the  trucks  and  clanging  cars, 

Ambulance,  van,  and  dray, 
They  chime  their  slow  and  certain  bars 

Ringing  our  wrongs  away. 

Here,  down  at  Tenth  and  Broadway,  loom 

Dull  walls.     But  liquid  notes 
Still  dream  and  rhyme  and  roam  and  boom 

From  the  bells'  iron  throats. 

And  Broadway  stretches  ever  South, 
Steep-cliffed,  with  crawling  crowds; 

The  white  dream-tower  that  blocks  its  mouth 
Climbing  against  the  clouds. 

And  Thought  still  stretches  like  the  street 

'Twixt  obdurate  walls  and  high; 
Till,  where  drear  fact  and  mystery  meet, 

A  white  Dream  cleaves  the  sky ! 


[54} 


THE  FLOWERING  FAGGOTS 

There  was  a  field  called  Floridus,  east  of  small  Bethlehem 

town. 
There  first  the  roses  that  we  know  found  strength  to 

bloom,  took  root  to  grow. 

So  runs  the  legend,  even  so, — a  legend  handed  down 
From  other  ages,  yet  abloom  with  those  first  roses'  rare 

perfume ! 

Learn  then  how  bloomed  our  roses  first.     They  bloomed 

to  succor  wrong. 
For  a  sweet  maiden  without  blame  they  paled  with  wrath 

and  blushed  with  shame. 
And  none  recall  that  maiden's  name,  but  some  recall  her 

song, 
"This  is  my  sole  and  one  offense;  that  I  have  lived  in 

innocence !" 

She  walked  in  early  summer  dawn  beyond  the  city  wall, 
And  found  a  young  man  left  for  slain,  and  bent  her 

down  to  ease  his  pain, 
And  helped  him  thence,  and  nursed  him,  fain  to  squander 

of  her  all 
That  life  come  back  into  his  cheek,  and  his  eyes  ope,  and 

his  lips  speak. 

In  her  own  house  this  tender  girl  brought  life  unto  the 

dead. 
Her  old  blind  father  tending  too,  lonely  she  lived,  and 

little  knew 

[55] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Of  men,  save  blind  with  strife  they  grew  and  slew.     So 

days  were  sped 
She  hiding  him  in  secret  still  lest  his  fierce  foemen  find 

and  kill. 

Then  oped  his  eyes,  his  strength  returned.  He  gave 
rough  thanks.  He  strode 

Forth  of  her  house, — and  met  the  eyes  of  three  con 
spirators  in  lies 

Who  knew  his  wife  and  spread  surmise  with  leers,  and 
eyes  that  glowed 

With  evil  light.  Meantime  had  he,  with  wife  and  chil 
dren,  ta'en  the  sea. 

So,  bursting  on  the  innocent,  they  haled  her  forth  to  die, 
And  piled  the  firewood  in  a  field,  with  no  one  nigh  her 

fame  to  shield. 
White-faced  upon  her  pyre  she  kneeled  without  a  moan 

or  cry. 
Only  she  sang  her  single  song,  till  their  blood  blenched 

who  wrought  the  wrong. 

What    faggots    kindled,    high    they    writhed    a    myriad 

tongues  blood-red. 
Yet  some  were  all  too  green  to  blaze.     Their  smoke 

around  her  wrought  a  haze. 
She  crossed  her  hands  as  one  who  prays.    And  suddenly, 

instead 
Of  every  faggot,  in  that  hour  a  rosebush  bloomed  in 

lovely  flower! 

[56] 


THE  FLOWERING  FAGGOTS 

The   kindled   faggots,   roses   red;   the   unburned,   roses 

white ! 
God  of  his  grace,  and  for  her  prayer,  had  bloomed  them 

out  of  fire  and  air 

That  innocence  no  more  despair  and  justice  fall  aright. 
And  all  the  field  about  was  spread  with  roses  white  and 

roses  red! 

Some  say  the  red  had  thorns  like  spears  to  prick  the  foul 

pretense 
Of  those  conspirators  in  lies,  who  gasped  with  awful, 

dumb  surprise 
And    fled;    and    others    yet    surmise    the    white    meant 

Innocence. 
Howbeit,  the  tale  is  handed  down,  and  the  field  lies  near 

Bethlehem  town. 


[57] 


SONG 

Had  I  a  claim  to  fame? 

Little  to  honor ; 
Save  when  I  spoke  her  name. 

Gazing  upon  her. 
Then  was  I  crowned  of  men, 

More  than  my  seeming. 
Youth's  glorious  hope  again 

Bannered  my  dreaming. 

So,  when  our  day  is  past ; 

When  we  lie  stilly 
Under  the  earth  at  last, 

Clod  by  white.  lily,_ 
Give  me  neither  tear  nor  sigh; 
Breathe  but  this  in  passing  by 
Where  empearled  with  morning  dew 

The  high  grass  above  her 
Waves,  and  above  me  too, — 

"He  was  her  lover!" 


[58] 


ON  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN'S 
"SNOW  QUEEN" 

Yellow  catkins  on  the  sallows 
In  the  osiered  river-shallows, 
But  the  sunshine  and  the  swallows 
Doubt  the  death  of  little  Kay. 
As  they  counsel,  Gerda  follows 
On  a  gray  March  day. 

Where  the  reeds  grow  tall  and  rank 

On  the  pebbly  river-bank, 

Gerda  flings  her  small  red  shoes 

To  the  river  for  its  news. 

Have  you  seen  my  little  comrade? 

But  the  river  floweth  fleet, 

And  her  shoes  return  on  ripples 

To  the  pebbles  at  her  feet. 

Withholding  still  their  oracle, 
The  chuckling  ripples  chide. 
But  see,  a  fisher's  coracle 
Is  rocking  on  the  tide ! 
Gerda  seeks  it.     Yet  once  more 
To  the  tide  her  shoes  she  flings, 
And  they  float  in  widening  rings ; 
But  the  waves  withhold  their  lore 
From  the  wee  one  as  before. 
Then  she  turns  in  sudden  terror. 
She  is  drifting  from  the  shore! 

[59] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Oh,  the  garden,  little  Gerda,  where  the  flower-tales  were 

told, 

The  princess,  and  the  ravens,  and  the  magic  sleepinghall, 
The  royal  guards  in  silver  lace,  the  lackeys  all  in  gold — 
You  foresee  them  not  at  all ; 
Nor,  further  to  befall, 
The   robber-maiden's  reindeer,  nor  the  chill  enchanted 

sights 

In  the  Snow  Queen's  frozen  palace  of  a  thousand  north 
ern  lights; 

But  Kay  shall  yet  be  rescued  from  her  cold  and  cruel 
thrall. 

Shining   angels   of  your   innocence  your   childish   steps 

attend 

To  disperse  the  white  snow-goblins.    And  the  mirror- 
fragments  dance 

To  spell  the  word  Eternity,  and  free  your  little  friend, 
Through  the  magic  of  your  tears  for  him,  your  warm, 

love-brimming  glance. 
In  the  realm  of  true  romance 
Can  your  perfume  ever  fail 

To  float  like  rose-leaves  round  us  from  the  old,  old  fairy 
tale? 
For  this  trusting  child  and  small,  Hans  of  Denmark, 

be  thou  blest, 
Who  could  talk  to  children  all,  north  or  south  or  east 

or  west, 
And  discern  their  purest  sweetness;  and  can  draw  our 

smiles  and  tears 
After  all  these  many  years  ! 

[60] 


INTEGRITY 

Nine  days  they  wailed  dead  Hector,  the  betrayed 

Of  cold  Minerva  to  the  Pelian  spear. 

A  false  Dei'phobus  she  personed  here. 

Yet,  might  the  true  have  seen  a  coward  made? 

Might  not  the  glorious  and  heroic  shade 

That  soared  from  Hector's  fire-englutted  bier 

Down  darkest  Styx  have  wailed  then,  "Brother  dear, 

Better  thy  scorn,  my  recreance  to  have  stayed !" 

For  Love  hath  strength  or  weakness  in  his  hands. 
Friends  may  prove  foes,  foes  the  best  friends  at  need. 
Keep  then  eternal  vigil,  Man !    Advise 
Thine  heart,  until  its  turmoil  understands, 
There  is  no  choice  save  thine  own  soul's  indeed 
In  the  last  trench,  while  still  thy  pennon  flies ! 


[61] 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  WATERFALL 

Silver  waters  smoothly  slip 

In  an  overarching  flood 

From  the  great  crag's  rough-hewn  lip 

Where  deep  wood  to  deeper  wood 

Thrusts  across,  so  nearly  wed 

Save  for  the  broad,  deep  river-bed 

That  bears  its  riotous  torrent  past, 

Gambolling  glad,  to  leap  at  last 

Sheer  from  the  rocks,  where  boughs  of  pine 

And  fir  sweep  low.     Its  raptured  wave 

Gleams  with  those  nacreous  tints  that  shine 

In  a  wide  shell's  curved  concave. 

Far,  far  it  falls.     Its  surface  spray 

In  plumes  and  skeins  is  blown  away 

Evanescent,  shimmering  white, 

Shifting,  drifting,  wreathing,  trailing, 

And  perpetually  veiling 

The  flexuous  power  of  its  delight. 

'Twixt  its  arch  and  the  rough  cliff-face 
Wet  twilight  fills  the  interspace, 
As  if  the  broad  bejewelled  pinion 
Of  some  seraph,  drooping  deep, 
Shaded  so  a  dim  dominion, 
A  crypt,  a  silver  shrine  for  sleep, 
Ever  haunted,  day  and  night, 
With  a  curious  emerald  light. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  WATERFALL 

So,  where  it  plunges  to  th'  abysm 
With  thunder-tones,  and  hissing  seethes 
In  a  vast  pool,  the  torrent's  prism 
Shuts  in  a  secret  shrine,  that  breathes 
Purer  breaths  of  rarer  beauty 

Than  fills  our  world  of  painful  duty. 

•- 

On  either  side  the  waterfall 

The  rock  face  spreads  abrupt  and  tall 

And  rims  the  pool,  that,  at  the  base 

Of  the  encirquing  rocky  face, 

Through  devious  channels,  worn  crevasses, 

Is  freed  upon  the  mountain  passes. 

Now  on  a  day  of  dizzy  heat 
A  young  man,  bronzed  but  city-bred, 
Climbing  through  the  clover  sweet, 
Saw  crested  waters  glitter  far, 
Surged  through  thick  trees,  and  stood  o'erhead 
Above  that  pool  where  wonders  are. 
Cliff-poised  and  opposite  the  fall 
He  stood,  and  heard  its  waters  call, 
And  won  with  effort  to  the  base 
Of  its  perilous  rocky  face, 
And  found  it  difficult  to  trace 
The  circuit  round;  but  in  the  end 
On  slippery  stones,  with  gasping  breath, 
Stood  where  eternal  waters  pour, 
Wet  with  their  mist,  and  with  their  roar 
Deafened,  and  within  grasp  of  death; 
Yet  saw  beneath  their  glimmering  curve 
That  twilight  space,  that  crypt  green-lit, 
[63] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

That  cloister  of  divine  content; 

And  throbbed  and  thrilled  through  every  nerve ; 

Leaped  then,  and  burst  the  mist  of  it, 

And  stood  enraptured,  drenched,  forespent, 

Where  but  beneath  the  flowing  fall 

That  spread  its  curtain  closely  round — 

A  splendid  curtain,  silver-sewn, 

Spangled  like  hammochrysos  stone — 

Stood  in  a  crypt  that  dripped  delight, 

His  ear-drums  pulsing  with  that  sound 

The  sheeted  waters  in  their  might 

Flung  to  the  crags,  to  mock  their  thrall. 

Ever  the  curving  curtain  of  light 
Flickered  before  him,  swam  on  his  sight. 
Turning  he  saw  how  the  cliff-face  gleamed 
With  deep-cut  niches,  or, — Nay!     Had  he  dreamed? 

The  dripping  boulders,  beaded  with  frost, 
Crowded  the  twilight,  heavily  mossed. 
High  in  the  cliff-face,  nigh  to  his  head 
Niches  glimmered  with — lamps  for  the  dead  ? 

There  'neath  the  silver  cataract  screen, 
In  the  glimmering  twilight  eerily  green, 
Three  niches  shone  with  three  statues  bright, 
Slender  in  silver, — each  with  a  light ! 

Bronzed    hands    reached    them,    though    blue    eyes 

feared, 
Eyes  that  were  narrowed  with  fear  as  they  peered. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  WATERFALL 

The  man's  hands  grasped  them,  and  set  them  all 
At  his  feet,  'mid  the  boulders,  under  the  fall. 

Worn  were  the  features.     Scarce  could  he  trace 
Christ's  or  the  Virgin's  or  Joseph's  face. 
Yet  on  every  image,,  gleaming  and  bright, 
Phosphorous  fungus  glowed  for  a  light. 

Worn  was  the  silver,  scoured  and  scored. 

(Steadily  roaring  the  waterfall  poured.) 

Lost  in  wonder,  his  wide  eyes  ashine, 

Stood  the  bronzed  young  man  in  that  sea-green  shrine. 

"Now  I  remember !     Before  I  was  born 
Were  these  waters,  they  say,  from  their  channel  torn. 
Then  the  pool  was  a  quarry.    Here  at  the  base 
Italians  hacked  at  the  cliff's  hard  face. 

"A  loss — and  abandoned — sunk  out  of  mind, — 
But  their  heartening  faith  they  have  left  behind, 
Here  in  this  silver,  here  at  my  feet, — 
Their  leaven  of  love  making  labour  sweet ! 

"Jesus  and  Mary  and  Joseph  mild, 

The  same  that  my  mother  taught  to  her  child! 

Ah,  now  in  the  world  you  would  grieve,  you  would 

grieve ! 
Here  in  your  purity,  live  and  believe ! 

"Here  in  your  niches  I  set  you  in  line, 
In  your  dripping  crypt,  in  your  secret  shrine. 
The  world's  erosion  wears  you  not  here, — 
Only  white  waters,,  pure  and  clear. 

[65] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

"Only  the  waters,  seeping  through  clay, 
For  long  years  longer  shall  wear  you  away, — 
Out  of  the  world's  light,  here  in  the  sweet 
Emerald  light  of  your  pure  retreat !" 

Swiftly  he  set  them  shining  on  high; 
Stood  with  bowed  head ;  and  turned  with  a  sigh ; 
Burst  to  the  light ;  clung  the  cliff's  rough  face, 
With  thew  and  sinew  his  path  to  retrace. 

Still  from  the  crag  the  water  curves 

And  pours  its  sheets  of  glittering  light 

To  the  great  pool  from  off  the  height, 

Nor  from  its  splendid  purpose  swerves. 

And  still  the  mountain  valleys  drink 

The  glory  leaping  from  its  brink 

When,  through  a  thousand  streams  distilled, 

It  finds  the  pastures  men  have  tilled. 

And  its  sweet  legend  travels  still 

From  lip  to  lip  and  hill  to  hill 

Through  all  that  rugged  mountain  land. 

In  many  a  cabin  mountaineers 

Still  hand  it  down  through  sons  and  daughters, 

Told  with  rough  mirth  or  told  with  tears. 

They  say  it  sweetens  all  the  waters 

That  ever  leaped  the  waterfall. 

And  some  say,  "Folly !     That  is  all." 

And  few  there  are  who  understand. 


66] 


"LE  BAISER"  BY  RODIN 

Molded  of  snow-white  marble,  her  arm  draws  down  his 

head. 

Over  them  both  hath  genius  a  mystic  stillness  spread. 
Curved  of  the  purest  beauty,  her  face  and  her  bosom  rise. 
Tender  his  touch  upon  her,  reverent,  strong,  and  wise. 
And  their  kiss  creates  a  rapture  wherein  all  discord  dims, 
Miraculous  with  harmonics  as  the  music  of  their  limbs; 
Poignant  as  utmost  anguish,  of  utmost  bliss  the  flower; 
Immaculate  and  immortal  in  love's  most  tremulous  hour ! 


[67] 


THE  LAUGHING  WOMAN 

Once  I  heard  a  woman  laughing — 
Not  like  laughter  of  the  women  you  have  heard; 
Syllables  whose  beauty  blinds  you,  and  reminds  you 
Of  a  brook  in  sunlight,  or  a  sweet,  leaf-hidden  bird. 
There  is  laughter  that  is  human 

Though  shot  through  with  notes  of  pain — 
And  then  there  is  that  laughter  of  an  old,  old,  evil  woman, 

Raising  red  and  burning  mists  within  the  brain. 

In  the  mad,  gin-reeking  dance-hall, 

Through  the  brainless  oaths  and  shrieks,  above  the  smoke 

Of  stale  tobacco,  burning  to  man's  yearning 

For    the    swinish,    acrid    incense — high    and    shrill    her 

babbling  broke. 
There  is  laughter  that  is  human 

Though  its  poignance  starts  our  tears — 
And  then  there  is  a  laughter  like  the  laughter  of  that 
woman, 

Freezing  hearts,  and  ringing  raucous  in  our  ears. 

There  were  mingled  in  her  laughter 

Girlish  love-words,  wittold  curses,  jests  obscene. 

And  the  dancers  swarmed  around  her,  sunk  profounder 

In  their  beastly,  battening  stupor — love  grown  loathly 

and  unclean. 
There  is  laughter — bitter-human 

Though  it  sears  us  hot  and  deep — 

And  then  there  is  a  laughter  like  the  laughter  of  that 
woman, 

Worse  than  all  the  ghastly  nightmares  known  to  sleep. 

[68] 


THE  LAUGHING  WOMAN 

Old  gray  hair,  that  had  been  honored 

In  a  life  less  foul  than  this,  less  mad  with  lust — 

Gray  hair,  defiled,  polluted,  the  refuted 

Boast  of  Man,  the  world's  white  banner  dragged  and 

trampled  in  the  dust! 
There  is  laughter  that  is  human, 

Though     the     painfullest,     the     harshest — yes — and 

then — 
And  then  there  is  the  laughter  of  that  old,   old,   evil 

woman. 
And  life  still  crawls  with  maggots — that  were  men! 


[69] 


THE  ARCIERI  OF  MICHELANGELO 

Ye  with  your  phantom  bows,  and  sinews  straining 
Toward  Life's  mute  priestess  hid  behind  her  shield, 
Base  loves  have  puffed  the  fire  wherethrough  ye  wield 
Beauty  to  loose  the  shafts  that  should  be  raining 
Thick  on  her  targe,  and  to  a  furious  feigning 
Is  the  proud  passion  of  your  blood  congealed. 
Like  frustrate  flames  ye  poise,  and  hold  the  field 
Through  love's  long  sleep,  of  life  no  conquest  gaining. 

There,  in  your  rearward,  Age  contorted  tries 
At  last  to  bend  true  beauty  to  his  power, 
Lacking  the  arrows  of  his  youth's  bright  dower 
Who  might  have  loosed  them  on  an  high  emprise. 
Here,  by  base  uses  of  your  noblest  hour 
Transfixed,  ye  strain,  and  still  no  arrow  flies ! 


[70] 


THE  SORCERESS  OF  THE  MOON 

Its  gates  are  griffin-guarded  gates, 
Its  towers  of  yellow  marble  hewn. 
Resplendent  glints  each  sparkling  stud 
Of  rubies  red  as  pigeon's  blood, 
Of  pearls  as  white  as  the  swan's  neck, 
Of  diamonds  without  flaw  or  fleck 
That  crust  its  towers,  and  glitter  thence 
Along  its  cloudy  battlements. 
And  far  within  its  portals  waits 
The  sorceress  of  the  moon ! 

This  palace  I  have  seen  afar 
When  crimson,  gold,  and  purple  cloud 
Made  all  the  west  a  blaze  of  flame, 
Ere  twilight  from  her  cloisters  came 
To  walk  the  heavens  with  nunlike  pace 
And  downcast  eyes  and  wistful  face. 
Then  all  its  wonder  crumbling  lies 
In  splendid  wreckage  on  the  skies. 
But  now — ah,  see!     Its  raptures  rise 
Impossible  and  proud. 

So  fling  a  bridle  of  delight 
Upon  the  wildest  dream  of  all, 
And,  as  Mahomet  'strode  the  back 
Of  the  white  beast  called  Alborac, 
We  too  shall  thunder  up  the  west 
With  rich  caparison  and  crest, 

[W] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Wind  horn  before  those  marvelous  gates, 
Daring  their  guard,  and  find  who  waits 
Withdrawn  in  splendor  infinite 
In  that  vast  presence-hall ! 

Her  brows  would  make  the  calla  gray. 
Her  hair  is  soft  and  dark  as  night. 
Her  purple  dais  canopy 
Bears  stars  in  golden  broidery. 
She  wields  a  slight  and  silvern  wand 
To  summon  spirits  from  beyond. 
And  all  the  wandering  winds  in  tune 
Sing  to  the  sorceress  of  the  moon 
With  airiest  music,  and  alway 
Swoon  in  her  haze  of  light. 

Yet  hers  are  griffin-guarded  gates ! 
Minds  in  her  presence  madden  soon! 
Her  gaze  is  strange :  and  to  sustain 
Her  glamorous  eyes  means  joy  and  pain 
Mixed  in  such  wise,  the  soul  is  caught 
Spellbound,  bewildered  passing  thought. 
Oh,  glance  not  long,  but  shun  her  sight 
While  still  thy  heart  desires  delight, 
Where,  deep  within  the  sunset,  waits 
The  sorceress  of  the  moon ! 


[72] 


THE  BRIGHT  ASSASSIN 

I  closed  with  pain.     I  slew  distress. 
And  I  am  slain  by  happiness ! 

Fear  and  despair  no  longer  lurk 

On  thought's  night-road,  my  woe  to  work. 

Since  last  cold  steel  our  claims  discussed 
Their  broken  daggers  gather  rust. 

Their  dark  cloaks  shroud  them  for  a  blot. 
They  lie  face  downward,  moving  not. 

I  looked  and  marked  my  work  well  done, 
And  took  the  turning  toward  the  sun. 

Into  new  morning  I  had  wrought 
I  laid  the  journey  of  my  thought. 

And  straight  I  stumbled  on  the  boy 
In  green  and  gold,  whose  name  is  Joy. 

Into  his  songs  I  stumbled  straight 
And  hailed  him  for  my  proper  mate. 

Then  the  horizon  shook  with  mirth 
And  dizzy  sunshine  thralled  the  earth. 

And  chargers  rich-caparisoned 
We  spurred  to  ride  to  bliss  beyond. 

[73] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

This  side  or  that  we  turned  our  way, 
City  and  countryside  made  gay. 

And  on  my  pillion  rode  the  love 
My  heart  is  never  weary  of; 

Her  soft  cheek  pressed  to  mine  aglow, 
Our  laughing  murmurs  very  low. 

Oh,  then  I  boasted  of  my  slain, 

And  Joy  drew  poniard  like  to  pain; 

Pierced  me  with  pangs  that  ache  and  ache 
Until  I  think  my  heart  will  break. 

My  heart  for  fulness  yearns  for  drouth. 
Words  for  my  joy  choke  up  my  mouth. 

I  writhe  upon  a  rack  of  bliss, 
And  Joy  my  fell  Procrustes  is. 

Strange  seems  such  wisdom  to  confess : 
Yet, — thwart  thou  pain,  and  slay  distress,- 
Thou  shalt  be  slain  by  happiness ! 


[74] 


ON  THE  WATERFRONT 

Lollin'  on  a  dock-pile,  pipe  a-draggin'  slow, 

Squintin'  at  the  little  tugs  puffin*  to  an'  fro, — 

All  the  shippin'  in  the  sunlight  busy  with  their  sails, 

Winches  rarin',  'ands  a-swearin',  cargo-'ooks  an'  bales; 

Mist'ry  o'  the  dirty  water  lappin'  down  below, 

Lappin'  an'  a-lippin',  "Aint  ye  goin'  to  go  ?" 

Gawd,  my  'eart  is  full  this  mornin' !     Aint  it  swelling 

though ! 
All  the  ships  upon  the  sea,  an*  all  the  things  I  know ! 

Damn  oP  wind-bag,  strainin'  at  yer  anchor, 

(Aint  ye  goin'  to  go?    Aint  ye  goin'  to  go?) 

Dirty  drab  oP  'ull,  from  yer  fore-truck  to  yer  spanker, 

Fo'c'sle-'ead  to  starn,  I  know  ye  so ! 

Take  me  out,  take  me  out,  take  me  out  along  o'  ye ! 

'Eave  yer  sloppy  deck  agin  underneath  my  feet; 

Lemme  bunk  wi'  frowsy  Swedes  an'  them  'eathen  Dago 

breeds, 
An'  we'll  start  the  'ell  a-goin'  where  the  sea  an'  'arbor 

meet! 

Damn  oP  storm-sow,  wallerin'  through  'urricanes, 
Shakin'  like  a  wet  dorg — tryin'  to  shake  us  orf ! 
Scuppers  runnin'  like  the  Yarrow  whar  it  runs  so  muddy 

narrow, 
Dark  a  night  as  nights  in  Lunnon  when  the  fawg  is  thick 

an'  sof ' ! 

[75] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Sweepin'  sea,  leapin'  sea,  shakin'  us  an'  blindin'  us, 
Still  our  lights  are  swingin'  through  the  rarin',  tearin' 

storm. 
Fightin'-glad  we're  fightin'  on!     'Oo  says  that  Gawd's 

a-mindin'  us? 
(Shiverin' — I'm  shiverin'!  An'  aint  this  sunlight  warm?) 

Pa'my  isles — ba'my  isles — glidin'  on  a  sea  o'  glass ! 
Sunset's  on  the  'arbor  like  a  taste  o'  Kingdom  Come. 
Gels  are  laughin'  far  an'  faintly,  an'  the  music  tinkles 

gently. 

'Oo'll  git  lef  ashore  tonight,  long  o'  gels  an'  rum? 
Clouds  that  'ang  forever  on  volcano-tops  a-slumberin', 
Music  ever  tinklin',  an'  the  moonlight  paths  we  know ! 
'Oo'll  git  lef  ashore  tonight  ?     Hours,  'oo's  a-numberin'  ? 
(Aint  ye  goin',  aint  ye  goin',  aint  ye  goin'  to  go?) 

Frizzlin'  days,  sizzlin'  days,  shrivelin'  all  the  pent  of  'er ! 
We're  wearin'  wot  Gawd  gave  us,  an'  a-spoilin'   fer  a 

fight. 

'Aulin'  'ere,  'aulin'  thar, — Mate  so  mad  'e's  dumb  to  swar ! 
Oh,  the  cool,  cool  stars  a-swingin'  when  the  wind  comes 

on  'th  night ! 
Slum  smells  in  the  galley!     The  closeness  an'  the  stink 

of  it! 

'Ell  upon  the  'ot  decks;  fo'c'sle  'ot  as  'ell; 
Quorlin'   all   along  the   bunks.      Sleep?      Don't   wanter 

think  of  it ! 
(Say!     Put  up  that  knife,  you  — !     Aie,  thar  goes  eight 

bell!) 

[76] 


ON  THE  WATERFRONT 

Swingin'  lamps,  battered  fices  plannin'  some  new  devil 
ment; 

Stinkin'  raw  terbaccy  smoke.,  cursin'  somethin'  sweet, — - 

Then,  the  sea's  oF  roar  again,  an'  the  work  that  scraps 
'th  men, 

Drowned  voices  in  the  boxin'  wind,  an'  suddint  death  to 
meet! 

Voices  on  the  sea-wind,  voices  on  the  shore-breeze ! 

Wall-eye  Fred,  an'  little  Red,  an'  Butcher  John,  an' 
Bo  — 

Cooky  Black,  an'  Hackensack!  Mateys?  All  my  old 
uns. 

(Aint  ye  goin',  aint  ye  goin',  aint  ye  goin'  to  go?) 

Fair  wind — foul  wind!     'Ow  I  useter  think  of  it! 

Lyin'  in  the  'eadland  grass,  wishin'  I  would  be 

Some  day,  just  as  I  'ave  been,  workin'  ships  that  I  'ave 

seen, 

A  sailorman,  a  sailorman  on  any  ship  at  sea ! 
Starin'  in  the  sunsets,  wonderin'  an'  wonderin', 
Watchin'  all  the  sails  beat  'ome.  .   .   .  Oh,  knowin'  wot  I 

know, 
Was  that  black-eyed  Susie  right,  when  we  'ad  our  little 

fight? 
The  flashin',  snappin'  eyes  of  'er,  that  said  I  shouldn't 

go? 


Loafin'  on  a  string-piece,  hours  a-crawlin'  slow, 
Dreamin'  on  the  waterways  where  the  big  ships  go, — 

[77] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

All  the  busy  'arbor  shippin',  all  the  glintin'  sails, 
Tramps  a-coalin',  smoke  a-rollin',  winches  histin'  bales, — 
Wot  a  myst'ry  in  the  water  lappin'  down  below ! 
Lappin'  an*  a-lippin',  "Aint  ye  goin'  to  go?" 
In  my  'eart  the  sea  is  swellin'.    Aint  it  swellin',  though! 
All  the  ships  upon  the  sea,  an'  all  the  things  I  know ! 


THE  STREET  LAMP 

Homes  stand  in  slumber.     Sleep  broods  shadowingly 
In  this  deserted  street's  far-vista'd  night, 
Save  only  where  a  little  mortal  light 

Sheds  on  the  pave  its  careful  boundary 

And  shines  a  kindly  host  to  each  degree 

Of  city  wraith,  where  wan  street  shadows  plight 
Strange  troths.    Lost  footsteps  echo  and  unite 

In  a  refrain  that  seems  a  threnody. 

The  sweet  low  laughter  of  a  girl's  first  tryst, 
The  sob  of  homeless  poverty,  faint  cries 

Struck  dumb, — loud  Folly,  Mirth  the  satirist! — 
In  silence  once  again  Fate's  byway  lies. 

Brave  little  star,  dawn  pales,  and  through  the  mist 
Sadly  you  wane.     How  sad,  and  oh,  how  wise ! 


[791 


AGNOSTIC  TO  MYSTIC 

Why  does  it  matter  to  you  whether  Heaven  or  God 
Are  wraiths  or  realities  ?    We — we  can  never  be  told. 
Why  do  you  sigh  so,  and  stare  like  a  stricken  thing 
Out  of  the  boundaries  of  earth,  as  if  earth  were  a  wilder 
ness  trod, 

The  sky  and  the  sod 

Thrilling  no  joy  to  you  save  through  His  presence?   The 
old 

Beat  of  the  ardent  wing, 
Way  of  the  warm  to  the  cold  ? 

Yet,  am  I  cold?    Is  not  rather  the  coldness  with  you, 
Dim   groper   in   cloud,   discontent   with   the    fulness   of 

earth  ? 
What  but  phrase  do  you  draw  in  your  net  from  the  ocean 

of  dreams? 

Be  you  content  with  sure  glories,  with  moonlight  and 
sunlight  and  dew, 

With  golden  and  blue! 

Yet,  in  deep  passionate  hours  on  the  hills — by  the  sea — 
Nigh  to  the  gates  of  birth, — 
Sometimes,  oh,  sometimes  it  seems — ! 


[SO] 


REBEL  FAITH 

Ere  dawn  I  was  gone. 

What  my   four  walls  told  me 
I  dwell  not  on, 

For  they  could  not  hold  me. 

Oh,  the  lamp's  warm  light, 
Faces  fond — dear  laughter! 

Warmth  and  light — last  night! 
And  this  comes  after! 

Yet  in  storm  I  am  warm, 

And  the  mirk's  mine  ingle, — 

In  the  thresh  of  the  storm 

Where  one's  wet  cheeks  tingle. 

Black  boughs — black  roads, 
And  the  fog  to  fold  me, — 

And  a  hurt  that  goads 

So  no  home  may  hold  me ! 

No  road  can  tire, 

And  no  fear  can  break  me, 
Though  I  flounder  in  mire 

And  the  stars  forsake  me ; 

The  house  so  small? 

If,  as  they  told  me, 
Its  wise  rule  were  All, 

Yet  it  could  not  hold  me ! 

[«*] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

I  must  joy  to  grieve, 

Easy  bliss  refusing. 
I  must  love  but  to  leave, 

And  to  find  in  losing. 

Warmth  and  light — last  night — 
Of  a  sweet,  wise  order; 

Yet  afar  I  fight 

Toward  the  utmost  border 

Of  the  hurricane 

And  the  lightning  levin, 
And  the  rushing  rain 

From  a  pitchblack  heaven. 

For  some  marshlight  star 
That  I  clapped  wild  eyes  on 

Do  I  post  afar 

O'er  the  grim  horizon? 

Nay!     Near  Truth  will  blur; 

So  the  far  seas  over 
I  must  haste  from  her 

To  return  and  love  her. 

Round  the  world  the  light 

That  I  seek — that  shall  find  m< 

Was  a  lamp  last  night 
In  my  home  behind  me ! 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GODS 

From  a  high  tower  I  gazed  at  night 
On  a  great  city  hazed  with  light 
And   humming   like    a   dynamo    life's    various,   vibrant, 

human  strain. 

Domed  by  the  blue  and  star-bright  skies, 
The  crowds  beneath  my  peering  eyes 
Seemed  vast,  dark  shuttles,  to  and  fro  plying  the  threads 
of  joy  and  pain. 

Of  joy  and  pain,  of  death  and  birth! 
The  whole  refrain  of  this  our  Earth 
Thrilled  me  as  though  my  nerves  were  wires  tuned  to  the 

universal  theme. 

And  the  great  light  below  increased 
As  if  the  gods  were  all  at  feast!  .    .   . 
A  thousand  multicolored  fires  swam  on  the  glamour  of 
my  dream, — 

For  veils  fell  slowly  from  my  sight. 
I  stood  beneath  a  Roman  night 
Within  a  torchlit,  templed  square.     (God,  and  how  long, 

how  long  ago !) 

In  the  square's  midst  were  tables  spread. 
A  great  proud  awning  flapped  o'erhead. 
And    all    the    gods    were    feasting    there,    with    servers 
hasting  to  and  fro. 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

As  from  the  ground,  and  all  around, 
There  swelled  a  solemn  chanting  sound. 
Yet  all  untouched  their  banquet  lay.     The  gods  moved 

not.  Their  feast  grew  cold. 
Stranger  their  utter  stillness  grew, 
Till  piercingly  I  gazed — and  knew 

What    powers    had    swayed    that    ancient    day, — blank 
images  of  bronze  and  gold! 

And  still  that  solemn  chanting  sound 
Swelled  on  the  air  and  wrapped  me  round, 
Till  shudderingly  the  vision  passed.    Once  more  my  city 

sprang  to  light. 

Its  crowds  like  shuttles  plied  again 
The  multitudinous  fates  of  men, 

And  ponderously  I  felt  its  vast  and  diverse  pulses  shake 
the  night. 

Despite  the  poet,  sage,  and  priest, 
There  the  old  gods  sat  all  at  feast ! 
There  in  that  haze  of  light  below,  offered  the  best  all 

men  can  give! 

Blank  images  of  gold  and  stone, 
Hearing  this  whirling  world  intone 

One  psalter.   .    .    .   Will  we  never  know  these  gods  are 
dead,  and  cannot  live  ? 


THE  SUCCESSOR 

I  closed  the  door  behind  me. 

"Now,  she  needs  you.     Come!" 

Said  my  rasping  voice.     "So !    You  find  me !" 

Said  his  great  eyes,  glaring  dumb.  .    .    . 

"She  has  said  it.     If  you  but  reach  to  her 

One  reluctant  hand 
She  is  yours !"  .  .  .  "Then,  take  this  speech  to  hei 

And  understand!" 

"I  have  found  this  life  no  garden," 

Said  his  voice  in  the  gloom. 

"Taunts  that  scar  and  hates  that  harden; 

Not  a  whit  of  sun  or  bloom. 

Why  then  should  I  go  back  to  her 

For  love  long  dead? 
Though  she  chirrup  all  hearts  in  a  pack  to  her — 

Not  mine!"  he  said. 

"Young  man,  young  man  so  fro  ward 
With  your  easy  pity, 
Think  you  that  I  turned  the  coward 
When  her  whimsies  took  the  city? 
But,  when  twisting  that  or  this  to  her 

Approved  design, 
Could  I  ogle  and  blow  a  kiss  to  her, 

With  love  like  mine  ? 

[85] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

"Now  a  selfish  and  pleasant  liver, 

Am  /  that— I? 

Love's  a  deep  eternal  river 

Or  the  shallows  soon  run  dry. 

Though  dreams  maunder,  though  flesh  burn  to  her, 

For  her  own  soul's  sake 
There  is  no  way  to  return  to  her 

After  our  mistake ! 

"Now  at  ease  do  I  drift  and  dawdle, 
Quaff  life  free  and  glad? 
But  love's  wine  as  a  sick  heart's  caudle — 
There's  the  draught  that  drives  men  mad ! 
And  my  whims,  and  what  were  they  to  her  ? 

Like  as  I  thought  hers 
No  doubt !  .  .  .  So  I  bade  good-day  to  her. 

Call  them  off,  the  cum!" 

That  was  all.    The  bitter  cry  of  it ! 

As  I  left  at  last 

I  pondered,  "These  great  hearts  die  of  it, 

Man  or  woman,  so  miscast." 

Yet — his  chance — and  'twas  naught  he  sought  of  her ; 

So  my  heart  sang  free 
To  the  yearning,  burning  thought  of  her, 

Where  she  waited — me ! 


[86] 


THE  CARPERS 

(AN  ASPECT) 

Always  the  worm  in  the  bud,  the  fly  in  the  amber, 

Something    your    delicate    soul 
Sniffs  at  and  turns  from,  while  men  in  raw  multitudes 

clamber 

Upward  from  famine  and  fear  and  oppression  and  pain 
Led  by  red  beacons  and  white  and  great  dreams  of  a  goal, 
Through  anguish  again  and  again! 

Always  the  finicking  touch,  the  too-critical  spasm, 

The  highly  superior  sneer, — 

Here,  in  a  world  that  is  cleft  by  black  chasm  on  chasm, 
Here,  where  emotions  alone  give  the  courage  to  sweep 
Wrong  from  its  stronghold,  and  triumph  o'er  baseness 
and  fear, — 

Emotions  you  speak  of  as  "cheap" ! 

You  will  be  posed  and  correct  in  the  ultimate  Sheol, 

Cynical,  shallow,  and  vain, 
Far  too  well-groomed  and  well-taught  to  be  touched  by 

the  real, 
Bragging   your   sense   of   "adjustment,"   deploring   the 

rage, 

Unrest,  and  despair  and  new  faith  of  us,  "coarser  of 
grain," — 

"Carpers"  at  odds  with  our  age ! 

[87] 


A  STREET  MOTHER 

My  eyes  were  staring  high 
Aloft  for  dreams  of  rapture  and  of  awe, 
And  she — she  passed  me  by 
Before  I  saw! 

A  roaring  gulch  of  fire 

The  street, — and  brilliant  stars  possessed  its  skies. 
But  purer  with  their  passionate  desire, 
Her  dauntless  eyes ! 

The  profile  calm  and  strong, 
Yet  wistful  with  the  hint  of  alien  race  .    .    . 
Oh,  like  a  battle-song 
Her  thrilling  face! 

The  coarse,  dark  hair  above  the  tawdry  shawl, 
The  mothering  bosom  where  her  baby  clung, — 
And  all  the  burden  of  her  life,  with  all 
Her  blood  so  young! 

Her  face  uplifted  in  the  blue  arc-light, 
She  moved  with  that  high  courage  none  would  mark, — 
Turned  at  the  corner,  wonderful  and  bright 
Against  the  dark, — 

And,  as  her  grave  lips  parted,  and  her  eyes 
Sought  her  child's  eyes  with  whispers  soft  and  sweet, 
All  the  proud  stars,  the  vast  imperial  skies 
Swooned  at  her  feet! 

[88] 


HIS  WORST  ENEMY 

He,  who  had  a  sword  to  swing, 
Ever  went  ablundering 

Into  cul-de-sacs, 

Found  the  way  was  black,  and  then 
Had,  perforce,  to  hack  again 
(With  small  sword-room!)  back  again 

To  the  beaten  tracks. 

All  the  knaves  beset  him  there ; 
Yet  they  could  not  fret  him  there 

When  his  sword  was  drawn. 
He  himself  must  beat  himself, 
He  alone  defeat  himself. 
Lord,  how  he  could  cheat  himself 

When  the  mood  was  on! 

So  they  gave  him  rope  enough; 
Dodging  him,  with  hope  enough 

He  would  pull  the  noose. 
None  but  feared  the  thrust  of  him 
When  they  roused  the  lust  of  him; 
Yet — there  lies  the  dust  of  him, — 

Played  with — fast  and  loose! 

Let  the  grave  absorb  it  quite ! 
What  a  blazing  orbit  might 

Not  his  sword  have  whirled ; 

[*•! 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Carving  out  a  name  for  him, 
Purple  robes  and  fame  for  him, 
Plaudits  and  acclaim  for  him, 
Fearing  not  the  World ! 

But  some  foible  nursed  in  him 
Spread  disaster  cursed  in  him. 

Like  a  flame  it  ran 
Withering  every  branch  for  him, — 
Wounds  that  none  could  staunch  for  him ! 
Nor  might  ships  re-launch  for  him 

When  the  end  began! 

So  to  vile  sterility 
Sank  his  possibility, — 

Dust  upon  the  shelf! 
He  alone  could  cheat  himself, 
So  at  last  he  beat  himself 
Striving  to  defeat  himself 

Through  his  other  self! 


90] 


"POOR  GIRL" 

There  was  an  earthquake  in  my  heart — and  I 

Have  been  what  I  have  been. 
Now,  there's  the  long  street,  and  this  bitter  sky, 

Crying  "Unclean!     Unclean!" 

But  you're  more  swine — you — you  who  have  withstood, — • 

So  smug,  so  self-sufficed! 
Oh,  there's  a  thing  called  "frenzy"  in  my  blood 

Snarls  at  your  frock-coat  Christ ! 

"Seduction,"  "the  starvation  wage"  ?     Not  me ! 

I  seemed  to  flower  in  flame. 
And  so  my  "soul  is  lost  eternally," 

You  say.     You  "view  my  shame." 

Oh,  can  that  guff !    If  I'm  no  startled  hare, 

I'm  caught.     I  know  your  traps. 
I  took  my  chance.     You've  got  me  in  the  snare, 

"Society," — perhaps ! 

Call  me  "poor  girl,"  and  psalm-sing  through  your  nose. 

The  harlot — she  gets  hers. 
'Think  I  should  fawn  on  God  then,  I  suppose? 

You  whited  sepulchres ! 

Some  poet  will  even  put  me  in  a  song 

And  sell  it,  just  "to  live." 
People  buy  books  to  read  why  I  "go  wrong." 

I  gave — and  I  forgive. 

[ftfj 


THE  SNOB 

He  said  not  even  nothing  very  well. 

After  you  spoke  he  reached,  and  slammed  a  door 
Within  his  mind  .   .   .  and  ponderous  silence  fell. 

There  were  few  things  his  sneer  could  not  ignore. 

His  talk  was  obvious  and  trite  enough. 

None  missed  it  then,  and  no  one  ever  will. 
But  it  must  puzzle  God  to  "call  his  bluff" — 

That  horrible,  complacent  "keeping  still" ! 


[92] 


THE  CATS  OF  COBBLESTONE  STREET 

Close  the  high-stooped  houses  stood 

In  that  quiet  neighborhood, 

Undisturbed  by  trucks  or  vans, 

Pushcarts  with  their  fruit  and  pans, 

Scavengers  with  sticks  and  bags, 

Or  the  junk-man  crying  "Rags!" — 

No,  not  even  gutter-brats. 

But,  at  night,  it  swarmed  with  cats ! 

Slinking  cats  and  blinking  cats, 

Cats  to  chase  and  cats  to  clamber, 

(Eyes  like  topaz,  eyes  like  amber), 

Round  about  each  garbage  can, 

In  and  out  of  areas  ran, — 

Scrawny  cats,  with  deep  aversion 

To  the  Maltese  or  the  Persian 

(Soft  and  sleek  that  purr  and  mew 

Where  the  wealthy  avenue 

Boasts  its  brownstone  "No-admittance !" 

To  all  ragged  stranger  kittens.) 

Here,  as  street-lamps  sparked  and  sputtered 
O'er  the  cobbled  street  unguttered, 
Shade  to  glare  and  glare  to  shade 
Moved  the  feline  promenade, — 
Brindled,  blacker  than  the  Devil, 
Toms  and  tabbies  in  a  revel, 
Like  familiars  known  to  witches, 
Like  the  mouser  brought  such  riches 

[93] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

To  Dick  Whittington  in  history, 
Like  Egyptian  cats  of  mystery, 
Crouching,  scampering,  stalking,  squawling, 
Spitting  fire  or  caterwauling, 
Licking  sores,  rampant  or  sleeping, — 
'Faith,  it  set  my  skin  to  creeping 
As  I  viewed  them,  perched  on  high 
In  my  window  next  the  sky ! 

Every  window  blankly  glistened, 
And  the  dark  street  slept — and  listened. 
Clap-clap-clap!    A  footfall  faint. 
Then  the  Elevated's  plaint, 
Grinding  on  the  curve  afar. 
Then  a  distant  surface-car 
Jarring  past;  a  "cop's"  night-stick 
Rapping  quickly  on  the  brick ; 
Meanwhile — cats — in  swirling  mazes, 
'Mid  the  harbor-fog's  night  hazes 
That  came  seeping  from  the  river 
Setting  dainty  dreams  ashiver 
To  the  long  lugubrious  moaning 
Of  the  river-craft  intoning, — 
Cats  that  overflowed  each  curbing 
With  an  aimlessness  disturbing, 
Prowling,  yowling, — yowling,  prowling, 
With  such  grinning,  and  such  scowling ! 
Cat  Luculluses  that  sought, 
'Mid  much  refuse,  feasts  unbought ; 
Cats  that  wooed  and  cats  that  fought! 


THE  CATS  OF  COBBLESTONE  STREET 

Oh,  for  some  black  plague  of  rats 
That  would  rid  my  street  of  cats ! 

They  would  slither  'twixt  your  feet, 

Coming  home  along  the  street. 

As  you  fumbled  for  your  keys 

They  would  stalk  by  twos  and  threes 

Like  fierce  bandits  at  your  back, 

Wildly  whiskered,  cloaked  in  black. 

They  would  haunt  the  steps  thereafter 

Spreading  scandal,  faint  with  laughter 

Of  a  still,  demoniac  kind 

That  was  never  to  my  mind. 

And  their  cries !    So  strangely  human, — 

Gasping  child — heart-broken  woman! 

So  one's  dreams  (each  dawn  upbraided) 

With  gigantic  cats  paraded; 

Cats  that  walked  the  moonlit  sill 

In  a  pageant  never  still, 

Cats  that,  writhing,  seemed  to  rise 

From  the  street  and  fill  the  skies 

Like  a  locust-cloud  by  day, 

Like  a  feline  Milky  Way, 

Where  the  moon,  great  puss  of  space, 

With  one  cloud-paw  washed  its  face, 

Licked  its  lips  and  grinned  again 

Down  on  scampering  mice  and  men ! 


[95] 


THE  FOREIGN  SAILOR 

This  is  what  I  heard  from  a  foreign  sailor, 

A  foreign  sailor  looking  out  to  sea, 

Sitting    on    a    string-piece    where    the    wharves    were 

crowded, 

Crowded  with  the  cargoes  of  an  hundred  lands. 
Golden  were  his  earrings,  and  his  eyes  were  clouded, 
Clouded  with  the  memories  he  shared  with  me. 
This  is  what  I  heard  from  a  foreign  sailor 
Whispering,  and  gesturing  with  lean,  dark  hands. 

"Beirut  and  Alexandria,  Port  Said  and  Zanzibar ! 
The  Straits  of  Bonifacio  stretch  dim  behind  and  far. 
Across  the  blue  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  Messina's  Straits  will 
make  you  free, 

With  spices  heavy-laden, 
Of  the  glaring  Gulf  of  Aden, 
Of  Hongkong,  or  Tokio,  or  wheresoe'er  you'd  be! 

"With  amber  and  tobacco  bars  according  to  your  needs, 
Bright  calico  for  petticoats,  or  gaudy-colored  beads, 
Adown  the  coast  of  Senegal  (if  you  are  bound  to  see  it 
all), 

I  know  the  nights  and  days  of  it, — 
Can  show  you  all  the  ways  of  it 
By  sunrise  and  moonrise  and  tides  that  rise  and  fall. 


THE  FOREIGN  SAILOR 

"This  is  a  land  called  Africa,  a  land  that  I  have  seen, 
Palavering  with  black  alkaids,  with  kafir  and  bushreen, 
Where  striped  hyaenas  howl  at  dark,  haunting  the  land 
of  Mungo  Park, 

And  the  sun's  as  hot  as  Tophet, 

And  Mohammed  is  their  prophet 

In  slave-marts  and  villages  with  houses  built  of  bark. 

"Well,  'La  illah  el  allah — (as  the  good  disciple  saith) 
Mahomet  rasowl  allahi!'    (for   evidence   of   faith!) 
Long  since  I  sickened  to  behold  the  coasts  of  ivory  and 
gold; 

And  the  things  that  I  have  seen  in 
The  bight  of  bloody  Benin, 

Like  hot  sun  and  black  plague  they  change  and  make  you 
old. 

"But — I  was  born  in  far  Cathay  when  this  bright  world 

was  new, 

In  the  kingdom  Kesmacoran,  or  the  city  Kanbalu! 
Red  sandalwood  I  traded  thence, — white  Abyssian  frank 
incense, 

Camelopards  from  overseas 
And  Madagascar  ambergris 
And  roc's  eggs  and  ivory,  amid  the  Tartar  tents. 

"And  how  they  hunt  the  foxes  and  martens  from  a  sledge 
In  the  region  of  great  darkness  at  the  world's  remotest 

edge 
I   know,   and  how  they  meet  the   rains   and   snows   on 

gloomy  Scythian  plains ! 

[97] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Their  yelling  hordes  have  led  me, 
And  their  mares'-milk  often  fed  me 

In    strange    dreams — in    true    dreams — in    legend-rich 
domains ! 

"Beirut  and  Alexandria,  Port  Said  and  Zanzibar! 

And  at  their  names  the  centuries  slip  dim  behind  and 

far, 

And,  through  this  sunset's  gaudy  gleams,  what  seems  is 
true, — the  truth  but  seems  ! 

So,  lay  your  world's  embargo 
On  my  mind's  fantastic  cargo, — 

But  while  seas  run  and  ships  ply  our  life's  the  stuff  of 
dreams !" 

That  was  what  I  heard  from  a  foreign  sailor, 
A  foreign  sailor  looking  out  to  sea, 
Loafing  by  a  bollard  where  the  quays  were  crowded, 
Crowded  with  the  cargoes  of  an  hundred  lands. 
Brilliant  was  the  scarf  he  wore.     His  eyes  were  clouded, 
Clouded  with  the  memories  he  gave  to  me. 
That  was  what  I  heard  from  a  foreign  sailor 
Whispering,  and  gesturing  with  lean,  dark  hands ! 


[98] 


MID-OCEAN 

Leaning  on  the  rail,  looking  at  the  lead, 
There  was  blue  water  under  us,  astern  and  ahead, 
A  million  miles  behind  us  and  a  million  miles  before 
Water  blue  as  indigo,  that  never  knew  a  shore! 

Where  was  the  skyline,  that  shining  silver  thread? 
Blue  with  blue  was  blended.    Sea  and  sky  were  wed. 
Pulsing  through  that  blue  abyss  Time  and  Thought  were 

dead. 
Steam?    We  buzzed  suspended  in  Infinity  instead. 

Throbbed  the  silly  engines.    Joked  the  silly  crew. 
"Sails,"  with  palm  and  needle,  swore — as  sailors  do. 
"Chips"  said,  "Well,  we've  crossed  it!     We're  coastin' 

down  the  hill!" 
Liar !    In  that  azure  vault  we  hung  stock-still. 

Never  was  I  so  at  peace,  never  so  afraid. 
Like  the  timeless  time  it  was  before  the  world  was  made. 
Blue  oblivion,  largely  lit,  smiled  and  smiled  at  me, — 
Atom  in  the  void,  on  the  Western  Sea ! 


[99] 


SUCCESS 

Did  you  know  ? 

Through  all  the  call  and  clamor,  did  you  know  it  would 

be  so? 

When  the  thickening  night  was  round  us,  and  the  surg 
ing,  roaring  press, 

And  the  final  grapple  found  us  on  an  utter  loneliness — 
Yes,   pinnacled,   enskied, — but,  like  mountains   in  their 

pride, 

Aloof  in  aching  longing  with  the  whole  world  to  deride, 
To  rise  and  hurl  us  under  dumb  and  desperate.    I  wonder 
In    the    tumult,    at    the    onslaught,    if    you    knew    you 
prophesied  ? 

"Hold  you  fast!"  .    .    . 

When  they  fell  on  our  defenses,  when  the  walls  were 

sapped  at  last, 
When  it  seemed  as  if  disaster  took  the  chill  of  death  for 

mate, 
And  that  lies  at  last  were  master  and  the  issue  thrown  to 

Fate, 
When   the   gold,   and    guilty    gems,   of  their    glittering 

diadems 
Flashed  above  us,  and  the  helots  of  that  triumph  kissed 

the  hems 
Of    the    prideful    robes    they    flaunted — then    your    cry 

came — quick,  undaunted — 
As  the  waves  of  wrath  assailed  you  like  the  seas  a  galley 

stems. 

[100] 


SUCCESS 

But  I  gave — 

I  gave  back  before  the  battle  like  a  poltroon  and  a  slave, 

And  the  bribe  bit  deep  to  scar  me,  and  the  end  was  sick 
to  see 

When  they  triumphed  like  an  army  round  a  trophy  on  a 
tree. 

And  I  stood  in  my  disgrace  where  your  dead  and  daunt 
less  face 

Beneath  me  smiled  immortal.  And  I  wished  me  in  your 
place, 

While  they  pressed  the  flagons  on  me — and  the  chains 
my  choice  had  won  me ! 

Then  they  chaired  me  high,  and  crowned  me,  and  they 
cheered  me  for  a  space. 

Now  I  know ! 

Yes,  and  ever  since  that  moment  I  have  known  it  would 

be  so, 
As  I  crackle  all  the  vine-leaves  and  they  sift  to  drifting 

dust 
(Since  but  bitter  lees   the   wine  leaves, — all  the   gold 

o'ercrept  with  rust) 
And  hoarse  voices,  rasping  through  all  my  dreams  where 

kingdoms  grew, 
Jeer  with  triumph,  plot  and  wrangle  of  the  thing  they 

mean  to  do, — 
And  this   poison,   that  would   end   it,   cannot   mend  it, 

cannot  mend  it, 
Never  mend  it.     Christ!     I  know  it.     And  I  know  you 

knew  it  too ! 

[101] 


THE  STALLION  OF  NIGHT 

When  the  soft,  gray-breasted  Even  like  a  carrier-dove 

goes  freed, 
Cloaking  the  world  with  her  wings  as  she  floats  from  the 

hand  of  God, 
Then  sunset  o'erstreameth  heaven  like  the  mane  of  a 

galloping  steed, 
And  Man's  soul  is  absorbed  into  Silence  like  as  water 

that  seeps  through  the  sod. 

So  with  eyes  on  that  wild  horizon  where  all  of  my  dreams 

redeemed 
Glow  and  take  form  with  the  colors  of  cloud  and  of 

changing  light, 
I  beheld  the  splendor  that  flies  on  the  race  that  all  poets 

have  dreamed. 
Ere  my  ears  were  athrob  to  his  hoofbeats,  I  looked  on  the 

stallion  of  night! 

His  mane  was  the  flickering  golden  flare  of  the  sun  as  it 

sank. 
Black  of  withers  and  breast  and  haunches  he  loomed  on 

the  violet  West. 
And  the  pride  of  his  lineage  was  told  in  the  strength  of 

each  heaving  flank, 
And  the  star  of  the  evening  sparkled  full-rayed  on  his 

noble  crest. 


THE  STALLION  OF  NIGHT 

He  gathered  and  reached  to  his  running  where  clouds 
were  the  drifting  smoke 

Of  his  hooves  that  spurned  the  mountains,  struck  sparks 
where  the  stars  outshone, — 

And  dark  on  the  skyline,  stunning  the  hills  whence 
echoes  broke 

Hard  on  his  drumming  gallop,  he  surged  and  he  thun 
dered  on ! 

The  soul  that  could  bestride  him  were  heir  to  a  heavy 

helm 
But  prince  of  the  farthest  planets  that  circle  about  their 

sun, 
For  only  the  angels  may  guide  him,  who  ride  for  no  idle 

realm, — 
And  one  poet  who  sang  white  daisies  on  the  downs  of 

Storrington ! 

Oh,  sweet  and  swift  immortal  heart  "of  honey  and  wild 

fire" 
That  clung'st  Earth's  cross  of  Passion  till  thine  arms 

had  Heaven  in  girth, 
Archangel  cohorts   cleave   apart   for   this   steed   of   my 

strong  desire 
To  hear  the  new  song  thy  stars  sing  as  they  answer  thine 

Anthem  of  Earth ! 

Phantasmal — a   vision — to   vanish   dislimned   as    a    film 

from  the  sight  ? 
Aye,  dazed  by  such  star-bright  Heavens  I  must  turn  from 

their  splendor  soon. 

[10S] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 


Yet  my  heart  may  never  banish  this  dream  of  the  stallion 

of  night 
Who  stamps  at  the  fords  of  the  starlight,  and  neighs  at 

the  gates  of  the  moon! 


THE  INTREPID  MARINER 

Shelley  speaks: 

Beyond  Helvetius'  dim  beginning  dawn 
And  Rousseau's  rationalistic  premises 
And  even  Godwin's  "Justice"  I  can  soar. 
Yet  sometimes  through  my  empyrean  borne 
Comes  the  far  throbbing  of  great  lonely  wings, 
And  then  their  nearer  thunder,  as  they  take 
Form,  and  the  vast  ghost  of  a  muffled  God 
Sinks  through  the  aether  pass  me  with  a  wail 
As  from  a  thousand  throats  of  Humankind 
Dirging  his  dark  descendence. 

Does  it  mean 

A  bound  to  Man's  perfectibility, 
Meting  my  vision  with  unvarying  Law? 
Ah,  is  it  possible  to  wing  too  high 
Till  Being  chills  in  the  intense  inane, — 
Until  the  veins  of  this  rich,  human  heart 
Congeal  with  ichor  not  for  veins  of  Man, 
Icy  with  godlike  passion?     (Theirs  was  ice 
Despite  the  amorous  heat  of  elder  days.) 
Yet — "every   heart  contains   perfection's   germ." 
When  have  I  aught  but  travailed  for  the  world? 
How  comes  this  hateful  film  across  my  life 
Freezing  each  mortal  impulse,  turning  Right 
To  guise  of  Wrong?     They  hate  me  who  should  love. 
I  toil  like  Sisyphus  against  the  stone, 
And  still  their  hearts  are  stone, — and  still  I  toil, — 

[105] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

And  their  hearts  break  and  rain  their  blood  on  me, 
And  arms  cling  round  me,  crying,  "Cold  as  death ! 
Cold!  Cold!" 

If  I  am  constant  to  my  star, 
I  only,  and  the  others  quail  and  fail, 
Can  I  humiliate  myself  to  them 
Who  bear  the  signal  of  that  brighter  morn 
Waiting  the  human  day?    I  have  been  proud. 
I  have  been  weak.    And  ever  have  been  strange. 
But  say  I  have  been  constant !    Harriet !    Harriet ! 
Say  that  I  have  been  constant!    I  protest 
Against  the  dark  indictment  of  your  eyes. 
If  I  have  done  you  wrong  would  not  my  soul 
Render  its  verdict  now? — my  reason  scream 
Out  on  such  self-deception?    But  I  find 
Only  Creation's  sneering  iteration 
"For  an  ideal  of  love,  an  ideal  of  love, 
An  ideal  of  love !"  .   .    .  It  recks  not.  .   .   . 

How  this  gray 

Blank  sea-fog  thickens !     There's  the  thunder-squall, 
Charles  Vivian !    Williams,  do  you  feel  the  drops  ? 
Scarce  out  from  Leghorn,  and  the  "Ariel"  .   .   .  Hark ! 
There !  ...  on  our  quarter  .   .   .  God,  they'll  run  us 
down! 


[106] 


WINTER 

Pointed  icicles  hung  on  my  porch  in  the  moonlight 

Glittering  bright. 

Crusted  snow  on  the  lawn,  mounded  snow  in  the  road 
way,— 

Silence  and  night! 

Crouched  little  houses,  where  windows  were  blank,  and 
the  sleepers 

Breathed  or  lay  still! 
Into  my  heart  stole  the  silent  fruition  of  winter, — 

Warmth   in   the   chill. 

Often  and  often  my  heart  too  hath  known  its  deep  winter 
Of  pride  white  and  cold, 

Drifted    with    bitterness,    clogged    with    its    vanities, 
smothered 

With  Self,  from  of  old. 

Not  a  withdrawing  in  chill  for  a  nobler  fruition 

As  this  of  the  Earth ; 
Only  for  sensitive  whim,  or  a  pose  superficial, 

A  cynical  mirth ! 

Now,  of  the  hearts  that  are  mine,  that  are  sleeping  above 
me, 

Lord,  let  me  learn, 

Ere  to  thy  splendor  of  stars,  thine  ineffable  moonlight, 
I  must  return ! 

[107] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Lest  in  my  Spring  I  have  put  on  the  armor  of  Winter, 
Following  a  wraith, — 

Lest  a  deep  cold  hath  benumbed  me  forever  and  ever 
In  my  unfaith! 


108} 


THE  SEA  DREAM 

To-night  the  loud  waters,  the  loud  and  crying  waters, 

the  wild  and  silvered  waters  of  the  sea  are  in  my 

mind, 
Their  booming  and  their  thundering  on  sands  the  waves 

are    plundering,    the    high    foaming    combers    in 

charging  ranks  aligned. 
I  strip  on  the  shingle  and  I  race  to  the  kiss  of  them,  the 

cold  beryl  welter  of  wave  on  swelling  wave, 
The  desperate  rush  and  hiss   of  them,  the  drenching, 

blinding  bliss  of  them,  the  kingly,  roaring  waters, 

so  strong  my  soul  to  save ! 

Oh,  high  along  the  sands,  where  nods  not  any  flower, 

the  silver,  crumbling  moon  lights  the  silver  webs 

they  spread! 
With  passion,  with  power  she  sways  their  splendid  hour, 

and  a  man's  heart  leaps  to  meet  them,  as  quickened 

from  the  dead. 
I  slough  the  gray,  ungracious   and  soiled  and  tattered 

seeming  of  the  might  that  was  my  mind.     Now, 

oh,  better  far  to  be 
At  dawn  afloat  and  dreaming  where  the  sea-birds  waken 

screaming  on  the  green-gleaming  rollers  far  out, 

far  out  at  sea ! 

For  there  is  deep  silence  from  all  the  wrangling  voices, 
and  there  is  clean  rapture  undaunted  by  desire, 

Where  the  world  swings  and  poises,  and  the  flashing  blue 
rejoices,  and,  misty  on  the  sea-line,  some  foreland 
glints  with  fire, — 

[109] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

With  fire  aripple  round  me,  as  the  magic  sun  and  blinding 
sweeps  high  through  mists  of  rose,  and  the  smell 
of  dawn  grows  keen. 

Time's  mills,  for  their  grinding,  must  wait  upon  my  find 
ing,  ere  I  return  to  cities  to  sing  what  I  have  seen ! 

To  sing  of  the  faces  that  meet  the  midnight  swimmer  who 
breasts  the  billow  strongly  through  silver  sequins 
bright, 

Till  moonbeams  filter  dimmer,  and  white  the  faces 
glimmer  of  mermen  and  mermaids  around  him  in 
the  night, 

With  conch-shells  spumy-blowing  and  moonshine  tresses 
flowing,  and  green  eyes,  and  gray  eyes,  and  lips 
like  coral  wet, 

All  gleaming  and  glowing,  and  seines  phantasmal  throw 
ing  to  maze  the  breathing  human  in  many  a 
ghostly  net; 

To  sing  of  that  spirit  who  brings  the  breeze  ere  dawning ; 

a  cloud-enfolded  angel,  a  flash  of  jewelled  wings; 
Who  clears  night's  sable  awning  from  waves  that  shudder 

fawning  to  heel,  like  hounds  that  scuffle  about  the 

feet  of  kings ; 
To  sing  of  haunted  waters,  of  sacred,  moon-drenched 

waters,  the  gold  of  morning  waters, — that  fade 

away  in  light.  .   .   . 
For  walls   are  still  around  me.      The  dawn  hath  only 

found  me   a  thrall  to   iron   cities,   sea-dreaming 

through  the  night ! 

[110] 


RECALLED 

Sing  of  love,  and  what  sing  I  ? 
That  the  burnished  marshes  lie 
Yonder  'neath  a  poppied  sky; 
That  the  eldritch  wind  makes  free 
With  the  wayward  soul  of  me; 
That  yon  gnarled  and  crookback  tree 
Points  the  way  to  visions  new 
Past  the  luring  sea's  keen  blue, — 
That  the  sunset  thrills  me  through ! 

Sing  of  love,  and  what  sing  I  ? 
To  the  dusk's  soft  symphony 
I  would  be  in  brother  tone. 
Love  can  leave  no  man  alone! 
Forth  fare  I,  companioned  now 
By  each  swayed,  harmonic  bough, 
By  each  prescient  star  aflame. 

Yet,  with  twilight,  how  she  came 
Whispering  in  each  breeze,  and  bowed 
From  each  battlement  of  cloud. 
"You  would  shut  me  out,  content 
With  a  barren  firmament? 
See,  I  call  you  softly !" 

Lo, 

Thus  I  heard  her — and  I  go. 

Sing  of  love,  and  so  sing  I ! 
What  worth  earth  or  sea  or  sky 
If  her  little  mortal  word 
So  could  still  them,  and  be  heard? 

[Ill] 


THE  ONE 

You  are  that  beloved  thing 
Which,  through  all  my  seeking 
In  silence  or  in  speaking, 
I  would  find,  and  finding  sing! 

You  are  that  beloved  air 
Which,  o'er  all  the  chiming 
Of  music  or  of  rhyming, 
Reconciles  my  long  despair. 

You  are  that  beloved  sight 
Which,,  beyond  life's  fairest 
Or  rich  beauty's  rarest, 
Fills  my  heart  with  true  delight. 

You  are  that  beloved  place 

Where,  past  all  the  portals 

To  the  pomp  of  mortals, 

Love  perceives  the  courts  of  grace, 

And  what  splendors  more, — ah,  well! 
Though  I  often  fashion 
Songs  of  praise  and  passion, 
Now — I  look — but  cannot  tell! 


[112] 


THE  SUMMONS 


To-day  the  dreamy  distances 

Of  grape-stained,,  purple  hills 

Spun  out  thin,  hazy  mists  that  ran 

To  greet  far  plains  where  streams  began 

World-faring  from  their  rills. 

And,  oh,  my  heart  was  singing,  dear ! 

The  wood,  the  wind,  the  sun 

With  age-old  scents  my  nostrils  thrilled, 

With  fierce,  young  strength  my  being  filled, 

The  hills  and  I  were  one! 

For,  follow — follow — follow ! 

The  sweet  wind  calls  to  me. 

Hill-rim  to  misty  hollow 

'Tis  follow — follow — follow ! 

And  oh,  the  far  hill  crest  that  hails 

The  first  gust  of  the  sea ! 

II 

To-day  a  pagan  wreath  wear  I 
Of  goldenrod  and  corn. 
To-day  the  russet  world  is  clad 
In  Bacchic  mirth  to  make  me  glad, 
The  joy  of  souls  reborn. 

[113] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Oh,  glad  my  heart  is  faring,  dear, 

Through  wood  and  wind  and  sun ! 

The  oils  that  flame  yon  western  sky 

Are  not  more  brave — more  brave  than  I. 

The  hills  and  I  are  one ! 

For,  follow — follow — follow ! 

The  leaf -crisp  highway  calls. 

Hill-rim  to  misty  hollow 

'Tis  follow — follow — follow ! 

The  drunken  wind's  mad  vagrant  I 

Beyond  the  city's  walls  ! 

Ill 

To-day  to  cloud-blown  sky  above 
My  reckless  gage  is  flung. 
To-day  a  creaking  highroad  tree, 
A  bonfire's  blaze  shall  frantic  me 
To  ecstasies  unsung. 

For,  oh,  my  heart  is  singing,  dear, 

With  wood  and  sun  and  wind! 

Ho,  bark-brown  dryads  of  the  trees — 

Ho,  nereids  of  the  cresting  seas ! 

The  world  is  left  behind. 

'Tis  follow — follow — follow 

The  sword-flame  of  the  sky ! 

Hill-rim  to  misty  hollow 

The  cry  goes,  Follow — follow! 

And  vagabond — thrice  vagabond — 

Oh,  vagabond  am  I ! 

[114] 


THE  PEARL  DIVER 

I  had  an  image  of  the  bright,  bare  Day 
Like  a  tall  diver  poised  above  the  surge 
Of  ebon  night,  where  its  vast,  fluctuant  verge 
Lapped  against  heaven's  ramparts  broad  and  gray. 
Flickering  with  ghostly  fires,  beneath  him  lay 
That  gulf  where  light  must  drown  that  light  emerge. 
His  nimbused  radiance  stooped  to  dare  its  gurge, 
Plunged,   and  flashed  deep  through  showers   of  starry 
spray. 

Swift  his  transfigured  contours  clove  the  dark, 
Suffusing  fathom  on  fathom  of  night  aswirl 
With  tints  of  rose,  all  tremoring  into  one, 
Till  from  cloud  floors  he  plucked  a  filmy  pearl 
And  held  it  high  for  earth  and  heaven  to  mark, — 
The  cold  globe  of  the  winter-shrunken  sun. 


[115] 


THE  MAN 

All  our  light  mockeries 
Have  ever  paled  before  Thy  white  desire, 

Oh,  keeper  of  the  keys 
Of  earth  and  water,  air  and  fire, 
Render  of  all  the  world's  vain  panoplies 
To  find  beneath  the  true  heart  in  the  liar ! 

Consorter  with  the  base, 
The  outcast,  thieves  and  harlots,  fools  and  knaves, — 

Pure  well  of  mighty  grace 
And  mercy  on  the  sinners  and  the  slaves, — 
Strong  warrior  and  strong  runner  of  the  race, 
Challenging  even  Death  among  his  graves ! 

Thy  creeds  outwear  their  zest. 
Now  it  is  dogma  and  not  love  they  mete. 

All  we  can  do  is  jest 

And  toss  Thy  name  for  cursing  in  the  street, 
And  all  Thy  nations  shudder  in  unrest, 
And  Thy  wild  truth  fares  far  with  blood-stained  feet. 

Smug  speech  of  Thee  is  heard, 
As  "This  is  He !"  or  "Nay !     This  likelier  one." 

But  not  Thy  word— Thy  word— 
Thy  vast  example,  that  too  blinding  sun, 
Whereby  these  nineteen  centuries  are  stirred 
Darkly  and  deep  with  knowledge  just  begun. 


THE  MAN 

Thy  patience  still  is  great, 
Who  stirredst  the  waters  never  to  be  stilled. 

Through  Thee  we  recreate 

This  world,  until  those  things  so  strongly  willed 
In  Thy  vast  heart  bring  forth  the  true  estate 
Of  heart  and  soul,  with  all  Thine  hopes  fulfilled. 

And  if  men  say  "How  prove 
That  life,  that  self,  through  all  of  history's  lies  ?" 

Supreme  Idea  of  Love 
And  Service,  where  before  did  Man  devise 
Such  clean,  clear  courage,  half  a  world  to  move, 
Brooding  no  metaphysic  Paradise? 

Gautama,  Socrates, 
All  the  "seditious"  leaders  of  all  ages 

Pale  by  Thy  side.     All  these 
Are  gathered  and  transfigured  in  Thy  pages. 
Read  in  the  spirit  and  the  mind  agrees 
In  awe  and  light  and  vision  that  presages. 

Twist  Thee  and  turn  they  will 
To  all  interpretations  weak  or  base. 

Thy  metaphors  are  still 

Nests  of  sharp  swords  for  fools  in  every  place, 
And  Thine  interpreters  are  quick  to  kill 
Thy  truth,  that  binds  the  depths  and  heights  of  Space. 

This — with  a  vision  dim, — 
Eyes  that  can  arrogate  no  mystic  chrism, — 
This  do  I  think  of  Him, 

[117} 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

The  valiant  spirit's  one  and  sure  baptism, 

The  white  light  of  the  world  wherein  there  swim 

All  the  strange  hues  refracted  from  Life's  prism. 

So  far  the  boundaries  gleam 

Of    Space — or    Heaven — where    Man    shall    overtake 
Him, 

And  this  stupendous  dream 

Engulf  Man's  thought  and  into  glory  wake  him, 
I  cease,  lest  I  blaspheme 

A  power  Man  knows  not,  that  doth  rend  and  shake 
him! 


[118] 


THE  GOOD  COUNSEL 

Ride  thou  for  the  crest, 

Beauty  to  thy  breast, 

Life's  alert  unrest 
Tugging  at  the  bridle-rein ! 

Now  by  nothing  cowed 

Lift  above  the  crowd 

Kinder  sight  than  proud, 
Humor  beating  down  disdain. 

Silvern  to  thine  ear, 
Heavenly  bells  to  hear 
Ring  and  ripple  clear 

Through  the  clouds  of  thine  ascent, 
On  this  narrow  edge 
Where  but  eagles  fledge, 
Though  the  thunder's  sledge 

Crack  the  lowering  firmament. 

Pine  and  mountain-ash 
Splintered  in  that  flash? 
Bid  thine  heart  abash 

Not  one  whit — nor  do  thou  swerve, 
Though  beset  by  wrath, 
On  the  tortuous  path 
From  one  fear  it  hath ! 

All  is  planned  to  test  thy  nerve. 

[119] 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

Is  it  hard  to  hold, 

Through  the  numbing  cold, 

Onward,  blithe  and  bold, 
Relishing  the  thrills  of  pain, 

And  with  sigh  nor  groan 

Upward  to  no  throne, 

For  the  light  alone 
In  thy  soul — that  seems  to  wane? 

Yet,  what  would'st  thou  here, 
On  this  swarming  sphere, 
Save  to  feed  one  clear 

Light  within,  as  best  thou  may'st? 
Save  each  day  again, 
Fresh  with  strength  for  ten, 
To  achieve  with  men 

Through  the  trials  God  hath  graced? 

Holding  not  aloof, 

In  thy  light's  behoof 

Daring,  showing  proof 
That  good  heart  is  thine  and  will; 

Littleness  abhorred; 

Wary  of  reward; 

Bidding  light  afford 
Farther  light  beyond  thee  still. 

Thus,  with  love  for  one 
And  her  love  alone 
More  than  lip  may  own, 

[ISO] 


THE  GOOD  COUNSEL 

Raising  her  who  raiseth  thee, 
Strive  nor  apprehend! 
Make  thy  heart  thy  friend ! 
Look  beyond  the  end 

For  that  beauty  yet  to  be ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  r> 


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